


arrhythmia

by Basic_Spirit



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Abortion, Body Horror, M/M, Miles has a stutter, Post-Canon, Related to Outlast 2, Sad Ending, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-24 21:08:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21106019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basic_Spirit/pseuds/Basic_Spirit
Summary: After escaping the asylum, Miles and Waylon team up to try to stop Murkoff before Murkoff finds them. They encounter difficulty when the Walrider struggles to keep Miles alive.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a long time ago, back in 2018, but I never got around to posting it. The longer I've waited, the more I've liked it, and I haven't published much canon-compliant stuff before. With halloween coming up, I figured now is as good a time as ever. Enjoy :)

When Miles finally came to, he was hitting the ground on the side of the road, knees finally giving out, legs aching, feet on fire. He was just so tired, he only wanted to sleep. The sun was hot on his back – since when had the sun risen? – and for a second, he just crouched there, hands and knees in the gravel on the road shoulder. He tried to recall how he’d gotten to this place, but the farthest back he could muster was the courtyard, drenching torrential rain, things he saw but didn’t believe in. The rest was still tossing around blurrily in his subconscious, and he far from had the energy to recall it.   
  
He set his jaw and focused on getting as far from that place as he could.   
  
Forcing himself back to his feet, he saw – almighty god! – a gas station in front of him. Lord knows how long had passed, how far he’d gotten, how far there was left to go. Mustering all his strength, he straightened, ignoring his muscles’ protest, trying his best to look presentable. Where was his Jeep? Obviously not with him, probably still up at that horrible asylum. He supposed he could live without it. A redneck filling up his pickup looked over as Miles hobbled closer. “Whoa there, buddy, you look like shit.”   
  
Miles cringed, ears tender to that word. He knew he looked terrible, he could feel the dried blood all over him. He tried to speak, hoarse at first, then finding his voice: “I-I need a d-d-drive back to town…”   
  
The man’s face softened. Miles had forgotten what humanity looked like. “I’m heading back through Denver, I can take you that far. You sure you don’t need a hospital or something?”   
  
Miles wordlessly shook his head, self-consciously rubbing away the blood from the broken glass in his forehead. After an awkward silence, he made his way to the far side of the truck, uttered, “thanks so m-much,” and let himself in.   
  
God, did it feel good to sit down. He teetered on the precipice between sleep and wake, unconscious for most of the trip until the stranger was letting him off in downtown Denver. He felt like an outsider retracing the path he’d taken so many times to his apartment, feeling a changed man when he climbed those rickety stairs, dug the spare key out from the top of the door frame, jiggled the lock and let himself in.   
  
He tore off his filthy clothes, his judgement telling him to burn them, but his attachment to that beloved jacket making him hesitate. He forced himself to shower although it hurt to stand, cleaning his filthy body sluggishly. He barely considered his finger nubs, but when he did, he felt like crying again. Once dry, he collapsed and slept. It was a deep, dreamless, motionless sleep, and he didn’t wake for nearly three days. When he finally came to, it felt like waking up from a power nap that had gone far too long: skin creased from the sheets, head aching from ground teeth, dehydration, no inkling of what time it was. He almost didn’t believe his computer when it told him three days had passed since the night he’d left for Mount Massive, but the sun high in the sky wouldn’t lie to him.   
  
  
Not long after, he ate. His appetite was voracious; at least whatever he’d been infected with in that godforsaken place wasn’t killing him yet. He sat at the kitchen table, downing barely warm soup, finally reaching back into his memories. He frowned hard, shuddering. The Female Ward, dropping the camera. The moving inkblots. Father Martin’s sacrifice. The elevator, a way out. The sublab. The walrider. Falling five stories, broken legs, Billy Hope’s blood, being lifted by the Walrider, _not _killed, t… tactical crew, bullets in his chest… This wasn’t making sense. Why did he have memories of dying? His pulse was quickening, his breathing became heavier. Slowly, he lifted his shirt, kneading between his lungs. He felt indentations, scars, silver tissue in round little holes of wounds he’d sustained 72 hours ago. How was he alive?   
  
As his distress built, the buzzing was back in his bones, more than memories. With horror, he looked down at his arms, his pale skin suddenly swarmed with darkness. The nanomachines were here. He could recall the feeling of it fusing with him, burrowing into his chest, wrapping itself into his central nervous system, extending into his blood vessels. A german accent, _you have become the host. _  
  
This nightmare was far from over.   
  
He leapt out of the seat, feeling so, so powerful, but ten times more terrified. He’d taken what Murkoff had made. It was inside him.   
  
It was then he noticed his nose bleeding thick black blood, spilling down his mouth, chin, neck, onto his clothes and floor. He held his hand up, trying to staunch the bleeding, but his head only pounded harder. The swarm continued to thrum with electricity around him, the air buzzing with energy, his TV and clock radio switching on to static, the morphogenic engine sequence phasing over his vision. Adrenaline rushed through his body. There was so much pressure inside his head, his eyes, ears, and sinuses that they felt they would burst.   
  
“GET OUT OF MY BLOOD!” he cried, sounding mad to his own ears.   
  
It shook, metallic screeching echoing through his inner ear, and he dropped to his knees, scooting back until he was pressed into the corner. His panicked breaths stopped suddenly as it pulled out of him, forming in front of him, black and defined with everything else around it fuzzy, half solid flesh, half skeleton, as faceless as ever. The second it removed itself from his body, he felt his beating heart stop.   
  
He sat there, gawking at it, the engine flashing in front of his eyes. He pressed a hand to his chest, the left side, finding no pulse. He was dead. He was completely gone, he was hollow, the breaths and the beats he’d had moments ago were a facade. He was simply the shell needed to sustain this monstrous technology.   
  
“This is n-not happen-ning…” he stuttered, hand still pressed on his chest. His mind raced, trying to recall anything he knew about how the nanotech worked. Human cells making the needed technology, blood dreams, lead tumors, exposure to trauma to trigger gene expression. It sat there, staring at him without eyes, waiting for instruction, waiting to be driven around like Billy Hope had.   
  
He needed this thing out of him.  
  
But the walrider just entered him again, and his breath and pulse returned. _It needed the host alive. _He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.   
  
He shakily got to his feet and stumbled into his bathroom, grabbing the mirror hard with his bloody knuckled hands. His forehead was dotted with scar tissue as well; this commensal must have been healing him. Rubbing his fingers over his nubs, they had healed significantly as well. Black still swarmed around him, making him even more on edge. He was terrified, but it wouldn’t kill the host. Why would it kill the host?  
  
Shirt removed, he looked at the scars on his front. It had saved his life. Could he even consider this saved? Miles Upshur was dead on the floor in the basement of that asylum, camera lying next to him. His eyes were bizarre – irises and sclera covered by grey cataracts but pupils as black as the night. He washed the blood off his face, out of his mouth. It was starting to settle back into him, the black receding, and he just looked like a tired man with pale eyes again.  
  
Miles sat on the cold bathroom floor for a long time. He was trying his best to stabilize himself, for each time his emotions flared up, the black would return around him, and it would upset him more, and hence the Walrider would increase again in a sick positive reinforcement cycle. He focused on the feeling of the ground below him — he couldn’t feel pain right now, bones that he knew he’d broken ached only with weariness.   
  
Suddenly, Miles was overwhelmingly sad. His life was over; everything that he hadn’t done, he would never do. He’d felt the sun on his warm face for the last time. This was his life now; containing the beast inside of him. Tiredly, he put his head in his hands and let out a terrible dry cry. He wailed, so disturbed, completely changed.   
  
The walrider shifted inside of him, making his bones creak and crack. It made a strange robotic noise that somehow Miles could understand – a question, punctuation, _?_  
  
“W-we’re stuck together, I-I guess,” Miles said, tears rolling out of his eyes. What a joke. He was a monster.   
  
It made another clicking noise from inside his brain and he rubbed his hands on his ears, trying to get the feeling of internal hearing separated from reality. “S-shut up–” he ordered aloud. “Shut up! Get away!”   
  
It’s frequencies decreased like in a techno song and it shied back, the static decreasing. He dug his hands into his eyes and forced himself onto his feet, pacing to try to think. He was already considering finding something sharp and ending it all, cutting this machine out of him for once and putting to death the last remnant of Murkoff.   
  
His laptop dinged with an incoming email. Gingerly, he walked over and opened it, the screen going fuzzy nearest his skin. “S-settle back,” he stuttered under his breath and the static decreased. He checked his email, a strange ambiance in the room.   
  
An email from the same anonymous email account flashed in his gmail inbox. Evenly, he opened it, completely unsure of what to expect.   
  
_I got out. I got proof. I think you’re dead, but if you somehow made it out, congratulations. We can pool our stuff and take down Murkoff. If not, I’ll release my own in 48 hours. _  
  
And Miles just sat there for a second, staring, unmoving, processing. It started as a tremble at the back of his neck and grew into a laugh. Staring at the screen, he let out these terrible, shaking laughs, putting his head into his hands and guffawing. The very man who had sent him to this place, the reason he was now dead, had escaped and made his purpose nothing. Miles cried out, laughing, then crying, hitting the desk, slamming his computer. The whistleblower was right. He was dead. All his fucking proof lay on the floor of that asylum in a shattered camera.   
  
The walrider clicked inside him. “W-what, you want me to s-s-settle down?” Miles challenged aloud. “Fuck you, fuck all of this!”   
  
If he were smart, he would’ve put a bullet in his brain right at that moment. End it all before it begins.   
  
Something stopped him. Maybe it was the swarm, micromanaging him to keep him alive. Maybe it was a bit of humanity left. His sensibility came back. He didn’t need to die; he still had a reason to be around: revenge. This was his second lease on life. The least he could do was use their demon machine against them.   
  
He wasn’t giving up. It gave him some sort of feeling of approval. (They’d definitely have to work out their communication.) With a new feeling of determination, Miles sat at the computer again, willing the swarm to recede to he could use the technology. _I made it out. Fuck those bastards, I’ll do anything to take them down. _  
  
He was angry. Although it gave him strength, it was upsetting the swarm again. His head pulsed with the effort of trying to keep it inside while he was writing a cohesive email. He blinked as blood dropped down onto the keyboard and a hand shot to his eye, dripping blood from the inner corner again.   
  
“S-stop doing that,” he ordered the walrider and it made some other internal sound. Miles sent the email as it was and grabbed a tissue, holding it to his eye. This was not conducive for long; if it kept bleeding him out like this, he wouldn’t be able to survive. It made some sound like an apology and the whirring shifted from his head to his chest. Miles heaved into his closed mouth at the feeling of it sliding down his spine. This was too unnatural. 

“S-so, how does this work?” Miles asked unsurely, examining his arms for any sign of the swarm around him. “I-if I go outside, you’re not gonna k-…kill people, r-right?”

  
The walrider made another noise Miles couldn’t fathom. It wasn’t exactly the best communicator.    
  
Miles pondered if he could control it, and the second the thought entered his mind, another idea was implanted. Something he couldn’t quite comprehend, but a clear affirmative. Like a mental checkmark. “That’s good,” he muttered. “Can you do n-no?” The same feeling came over him, in the negative, and he smirked. “This could w-work...”

  
So he dressed himself. He put on dark sweats, a hoodie pulled over his face. Comfortable sneakers over feet that still ached. His bones buzzed with the swarm, like a helicopter through thick walls.    
  
The whistleblower had asked him to meet him. He was worried their email communication would still be eavesdropped upon. It seemed unlikely to Miles; everyone who’d been doing the eavesdropping was now dead. Still, he was willing. He wanted to know. He wanted the rest of the company to burn like Mount Massive had.    
  
The place the whistleblower has suggested was too suspicious. He wanted them to convene outside of the public library, but there were too many people around. There were benches, sure, but no one was sitting on them. Miles sat near the door with his face hidden in his hood. Having the swarm inside him put him in a sort of trance. Their minds were melded constantly; he could hear the rush of his own blood, feel cells divide, see behind himself. He was hyper-aware of his surroundings.    
  
Of course, he could sense the whistleblower coming. He turned his head quickly, the man standing out like he had a halo around him. A baseball cap was pulled low over his freshly shaven head, wearing an ill-fitting raincoat and a huge backpack.    
  
The whistleblower looked up and locked eyes with Miles. Things seemed to freeze, the people around them totally gone from their perception. The walrider’s attention was locked on the other man, but Miles carefully kept it contained in his ribcage. He stood, extending a mangled hand to the other man.    
  
The whistleblower kept his distance. He looked at Miles like he’d seen a ghost. His face was so pale, his eyes wide, Miles could hear his heart hammering in terror. This frozen moment of intense fright was ended when the whistleblower fell to his knees and vomited weakly into the library garden.    
  
Miles stepped towards him, asking: “Are you o-o-o… okay…?” By the time he got it out (damn his stupid fucking stutter) the whistleblower had wrenched himself back to his feet and turned tail, sprinting down the alleyway.    
  
Miles pursued him, calling, “w-wait!”    
  
Of course, the alley died off at a dead end. The other man cowered against the wall, pale, eyes teary. He just stared at Miles, quivering. Miles lowered his hood and the other man just recoiled even more. “I’m not g-g…” he tripped over his words. “Uh, I’m not going to hurt you.”    
  
He continued to gawk. All of a sudden, the walrider gave a yes.  _ I didn’t ask anything _ , Miles berated it. It shook itself inside of him. Miles mentally told it to shut up. The whistleblower breathed heavier and held himself against the wall.    
  
“You have to t-talk to me!” Miles ordered. “W-we’re on the same team!”    
  
The other man’s mouth opened, and he breathed for probably a whole minute before he finally whispered, “this isn’t real…”    
  
“W-w-what are you saying?” Miles managed. “You’re not m-m-making sense…”   
  
“You’re not really here, I’m dreaming,” the whistleblower whispered just as softly. “This is a nightmare, I’m going to wake up, why aren’t I waking up?” Miles stepped towards him again and he yelled, “Please don’t kill me!”   
  
_ He can see you, can’t he _ ? Miles asked the machine inside of him. The Walrider gave him an affirmative. “I… w-won’t kill you. I want to talk...”   
  
The other man put his head in his hands. He lapsed back into silence, shaking his head.    
  
“Looks, there’s n…no going back from what we did,” Miles insisted. “Get up, let’s g-go…”    
  
Silently, the whistleblower got to his feet. His mouth opened, and after a long time, he spoke, “we have to go somewhere to talk. I have to figure out what the fuck is going on. I’m not crazy.”    
  
“Y-you’re not,” Miles confirmed.    
  
The whistleblower gave him a more solid look. He walked past him. “I know a place. Let’s go.” He moved fast.    
  
Miles trailed behind him, putting up his hood again. “Y-y-you know my name, but I d-d… don’t know yours…”

“Waylon Park,” the other man answered. “Look, I'm sorry that… sorry for everything.” 


	2. Chapter 2

The whistleblower, Park, lead Miles slowly towards the outskirts of Denver. They entered the forest, first on a walking trail and then off into the woods. Miles liked this; no onlookers, no cameras.  
  
Park gave him another horrible look once they stopped and Miles sat on an overturned log. “Okay, what the fuck are you?”   
  
Miles glared at him, feeling hurt. “I’m a victim, j-just like you.”  
  
“You’re a monster…” Park dug his hands into his eyes like he was trying to rub sleep out of them. “I’m insane. I’m literally insane.”   
  
“W-what, what is it?” Miles asked.   
  
Park blinked in fear at him. “I… I don’t want to name it. The swarm. The nanotech from that place. It’s _in _you.”   
  
“I know that,” Miles grumbled and repeated, “what do y-...you see?”   
  
The look on the other man’s face slowly shifted. “You can’t see it?” The earnest look Miles gave him must have convinced him. He took a deep breath. “You’re… all black. Like a shadow. Your eyes are so dark… you _really_ can’t see it?”   
  
Miles had never considered how the exposure to the therapy, to the morphogenic engine, affected the perception of the walrider. He shook his head. “W-wait,” he stuttered, releasing his mental compression of the beast and seeing dark black veins swirl around his bare wrists again. “I can see that. Is it d-different for you?”  
  
The whistleblower gulped. “Yes. Worse.”   
  
“L-look, this isn’t g...going to work if you’re t-t… if you’re scared of me!” Miles was getting defensive. “That place is f-fucked up but we have to w-w-ork together if we’re going to stop it!”   
  
Somehow, this worked in getting through to Park. He straightened up and wiped his nose. “Okay, I’m sorry, I’m just a naturally anxious person… I’ll try to ignore it.”   
  
“H-here,” Miles shrugged and concentrated on manifesting the walrider. He ignored the rush of blood to his head and the horrible whooshing sounds it made in his inner ear. Waylon wretched again when it formed and Miles cast it away with a flick of his wrist. For a second, he had double vision, seeing the forest from two different angles, seeing a black spirit cord linking it back to himself. He set it free.   
  
“Huh,” Waylon gave a tired little smile. “You look just like the pictures.”   
  
Miles tightened his lip, but it was hardly a grin. “Thanks.” That’s right, Waylon didn’t know he was dead.   
  
“I was in the engine for four days,” Waylon suddenly admitted. “After I sent you the email, they committed me. I’m a fucking mess, I’ve had shitty social anxiety for years and I couldn’t get myself to say anything… they primed me for it, but _you… _you became the host, like Billy.”   
  
Miles shook his head at the sound of that word. “I w-went through hell,” Miles shared, looking at his mangled hands. “It’s hard to r...remember…”  
  
“They’re already looking for me,” Waylon told, “my wife and kids had to leave town, we all got fake IDs and they’re moving to Canada… we… we burned down the house. They know you’re involved, we have to go on the lam, we have to get out of here.”   
  
It was suddenly hitting Miles how real this was. He didn’t have time to sit at home and teach the walrider binary language. They had to act fast before Murkoff could get back on its feet. He tightened his jaw. “L-let’s do it.”   
  
Miles returned home to pack, the thought of killing himself now far from his mind. He packed only the important and left the rest as it was. He felt a range of emotions when Park was outside waiting in his Jeep. Why couldn’t it have been him who got away? His bitterness was balanced with relief seeing his vehicle still in one piece. When Miles climbed in the Jeep, Waylon visibly shuddered. Miles was wearing a jacket now too, and a large pack with everything he needed to take from his apartment. The walrider was loosely wrapped around him so his vision was being obscured slightly by the black mist.   
  
As he buckled up, he felt the walrider give another _yes_ gesture and furrowed his brow. He looked to the whistleblower. “A-are you t-t-talking to it?” Miles tentatively asked.   
  
Park licked his lips and looked down, ashamed. “… you can tell?”  
  
“H-how?” Miles asked.   
  
Waylon took a second as if trying to find a way to word it. “It’s… in my brain. Every time I come near you, I can hear it. I just… _think _at it and I can hear it respond.”  
  
_You can read minds? _Miles asked his parasite. It told him yes.   
  
“I don’t know much about what it was made for, but it is extensive,” the tech expert insisted. “I don’t know if it was meant to be a weapon or an information system, but they thought it would make them rich.”  
  
Miles’ mind was running, trying to recall documents he’d read. Billy had taken information from doctors’ heads, he knew what was going on around him throughout the hospital. _Is Billy with you? _Miles asked the machine. Yes. _Are you Billy? _No. _Are you a robot? _No. Miles shuddered.  
  
The whistleblower has still been talking while Miles had retracted into his mind. “Miles?” Waylon was tentatively asking. “Are… are you okay?”   
  
Miles held up a hand to silence the other man. “S-sshow me Billy,” he breathlessly whispered.  
  
Suddenly, he was unseeing. It was like someone had ripped the HDMI cord out of the TV port, darkness cast over his eyes. As suddenly as it started, he was snapped into a solid grey environment with the younger patient running towards him. “_Bring me to my mother!”_ Billy yelled with surprising realism.  
  
Miles jerked back to reality, inhaling sharply as if he were surfacing from water. “Miles!” Waylon was yelling his name, the car radio was screaming static. As his artificial pulse slowed back to normal as he gripped the seat around him, trying to will the smoke back into his pores.  
  
“I-it has i-i-information,” Miles forced himself to speak. “We-we need to stop, I need to see it–“  
  
“Miles, calm down,” Waylon reiterated. He was panting, too, the walrider’s tech starting to fill the car. “There’s nothing we can do right now, we have to get out of Denver before they find us—“  
  
“Ffffuck this!” Miles hit the dashboard in front of him. “I can’t d-d-do this! I d-don’t even know how it w-works…”  
  
“We’ll figure it out!” Waylon pushed. “Stop freaking out! You’re bleeding!”  
  
Miles blinked hard and blood dripped into his lap again. The iron tang was on his tongue too, and he grabbed a napkin and spat into it. “I-I-I hate this,” he cried. “What’s h-happening to me? I-I’m useless...” The more frustrated the host became, the more the walrider reacted around them – the engine of the Jeep was revving far greater than it should have been considering they were idling.  
  
Waylon was panicking now too. “It’s scary, I know, but we have to go! Stop fucking with the car!”   
  
Miles clenched his fist and wiped blood from the inner corner of his eyes. _Settle, _he commanded it, _please settle. _Eventually, it receded into him so it was hardly visible again. The car engine returned to normal. The radio signal returned. Waylon breathed a sigh of relief.   
  
“W-we’re really doing this?” Miles meekly asked after a long silence. “W-why didn’t you go with y-your family? You don’t kn-now me…”   
  
Waylon set his jaw. “They’ll be looking for me, and they’ll be looking for you. I want my family as far away from that as possible, but at least if we’re together…” he trailed off, looking for an upside. “... we can protect each other.”  
  
Miles was unsure about that, but he had just packed up his life and was in his car with a stranger. There was no going back from here. He swallowed and tried to form his words: “... a-alright, let’s go.”   
  
Although they didn’t exactly have a plan, their first priority was to hide. They wouldn’t be able to take down Murkoff if the corporation silenced them this early. Waylon’s information was already out there and Miles’ was not worth going back for. The rest of that day, they drove west toward the state line, sticking to rural roads. Miles knew they should ditch a car as distinctive as his Jeep, but it hurt him to leave it behind as they traded it for a cheap sedan for sale on some farmyard.   
  
Miles was realizing a lot more about his new self during the long drive. When he lost focus, the walrider seemed to give up on his breathing. He found himself lapsing in and out of breath throughout the day. From what he could see of his hands, he was distinctly less pink, color fading from his body. It must’ve been pretty hard for the swarm to bring him back from being gunned down, but it was doing its best.   
  
Eventually, Waylon’s eyes were drooping and they stopped for the night at a small motel. Everything was paid for in cash; no paper trail for Murkoff to track. Waylon took a long shower and Miles changed. When his sweater was off, he was able to examine his torso. Tiny black veins spread out from the centre of his chest like roots, shifting with the swarm within him, just barely there if you were looking for them. The sound of the water running blurred with something in his mind so he could hear the quiet singing of the machine. His hands were numb.   
  
“It seems active,” a voice said suddenly from behind him. Miles turned to see Waylon, a little wet around the edges but dressed in a tee and patterned pajama pants.  
  
“Y-you think?” Miles examined his arms.   
  
The whistleblower nodded. “It’s moving a lot. I’m a little creeped out.”   
  
“I-I slept for t-two days after I got o-out,” Miles managed, “a-and it was fine. So we should be f...fine.” He sighed and pulled a crew neck over his head, pausing for a moment. “A-also s-sorry about my sssstutter.”   
  
Waylon was sitting on his bed now, a very gentle expression on his face. Without the ball cap, Miles could see fresh marks where needles had been inserted into his brain only a short while ago. “Don’t apologize, you don’t have to be ashamed.”  
  
Miles grit his teeth. “Kind of i-ironic I can write so well but can’t t-talk…”   
  
“It’s not a big deal,” Park insisted. “I don’t mind. I’m patient.” Miles met his eyes and Waylon’s expression was serene. After just staring at each other for a second, Waylon turned to lie on his bed. “I used to read your work. You’re a good writer.”  
  
Miles hummed in recognition and lay down as well.   
  
After a second, Waylon felt the need to talk again. “I… I’m so sorry I sent you into that place. I never should’ve sent that email.”   
  
“Y-you didn’t know,” Miles' voice was quiet, moreso trying to convince himself so he wouldn’t blame Park. “They g-got you, too.”   
  
“I wanna leave the light on when we sleep, okay?” the whistleblower suggested. Miles said nothing to object, slipping under the covers. He fell asleep almost instantly.   
  
It was completely different from the first dark sleep he’d had after the asylum. He slept lightly for a couple hours, maybe, then returned to the grey room he’d seen Billy in before. The younger man was there again, and Miles had a better look at him. He was still as bland and broad and tired as he’d been in the engine but was dressed in a plain white shirt and jeans, sitting on an equally grey couch.   
  
“_You need to take me to my mother,_” the variant said again, very evenly.   
  
“_What the fuck is going on?”_ Miles asked suddenly, stepping defensively towards Billy. “_Is this real? Are you real? Where the fuck are we?” _  
  
“_This is your mind,_” Billy answered his last question first. “_The walrider’s mind, I guess. This is how you visualize me, so this is how I exist. As for reality, yes it is. You’re dreaming, that’s how it works. How it feeds.” _  
  
“_Tell me whatever you know,”_ Miles desperately pleaded. “_I’m lost.”_  
  
_“I have to see my mother_,” Billy repeated. “_They took me from her years ago. I did anything to get back to her.” _  
  
“_Whatever, fine_,” Miles agreed. “_Just tell me what the walrider does.”_  
  
“_This is when you control it,”_ Billy explained. “_It enters people’s minds. I learned everything they were doing.”_  
  
“_Do you still have it?_” Miles asked. “_The information?”_  
  
“_The walrider is a cloud,_” Billy said. “_It retains everything its ever seen. You just have to dig in.” _  
  
Miles thought about it for half a second and he was in. Secret documents, every kind that has been in Mount Massive. Patients being escorted to different projects, different bases, feedback loops and unseeing eyes. Coordinates, three decimal points. Radio towers.   
  
Miles jerked awake, terribly aware of hot blood pumping out of his nose. His heart should have been hammering, but it was still. He couldn’t move. He was completely paralyzed, still half in sleep, brain racing. The walrider in its foggy splendour was standing over him at the foot of the bed. He couldn’t breathe if we wanted to. The bathroom light the two men had left on was flickering on and off, the screams of voices roaring inside Miles’ head.   
  
Miles was frozen as the walrider floated atop him, melting into his body and forcing him back into sleep where a thick slough of images immediately filled his mind. Things he’d already repressed; Walker, Trager, running through endless halls, pain, blood (so much blood) and his own wavering breath. It stretched on for what felt like hours, teetering on the precipice of sleep but never awake enough to shift his mind from these horrible, horrible thoughts. He could hear his own blood being forced artificially throughout the body, the walrider turning him into the fear factory it needed. Overlaying it all was the morphogenic engine, recreated by his brain.   
  
Eventually, he was released from this stasis and finally jerked fully awake, the bathroom light on again, the sheets around him red with his own blood. He was shaking and clammy and just felt wrong, felt as filthy as he’d been in that terrible place. He fell out of bed, legs too shaky to work properly, dragged himself to the bathroom where he weakly heaved, bringing up a bit of blood but no food. He hadn’t been hungry yet; what was happening to him? Pulling up his sweater, he could see dark discoloration under the skin of his belly closer to where he’d been shot. The walrider was doing a pretty good job keeping him alive, but were these bullets still in him, poisoning his blood? How much of his blood was his, how much was metal?   
  
After a long time on the cold bathroom floor, he forced himself to his feet and shakily drank water straight from the tap. His muscles felt weak, like he was just regaining control of his body. Every time he blinked, the horror was back. He was afraid to sleep.   
  
Eventually, he crawled back in bed, lethargic but still shaken. He ripped off the bloodied blanket, flipped the pillow. He tried to force the walrider out of him so at least his heart would still, but it adamantly contained him in a thick swirling cloud. He could see the activity Park had noted earlier; had it just finished feeding?   
  
_You’ll never get used to the blood dreams, _Billy’s voice echoed through his inner ear. _But it’s worth it. _  
  
While the images were fresh in his mind, he jotted down the coordinates. He and Waylon now had a destination  
  
Miles lay awake for most of the night, too frightened to sleep again. He was so tired, but he could sleep in the car tomorrow. He could hear Waylon breathing too much, he could hear his pulse. The walrider was egging him on, insisting he try out his powers to invade the whistleblower’s privacy.   
  
As Waylon started to shift slightly in his sleep, the walrider sharpened even more. _Let it feed off his dreams, it’ll ease the load on you, _Billy insisted.   
  
“Don’t ffff-fucking t-touch him,” Miles sternly warned the creature around him. This wasn’t Waylon’s cross to bear, it was his own. He was a stranger, sure, but Miles didn’t want any harm to come to anyone.  
  
Still, he couldn’t help but watch Waylon toss and turn, humming fearfully in his sleep. He didn’t want to know the horrors the other man had faced. In the engine for four days, Miles could hardly imagine. His brain was scrambled by a few hours, and it had been enough to make him host.

Could Waylon have been host?


	3. Chapter 3

The night passed very slowly; at some point in the early morning, Miles dozed off into a light, dreamless sleep, and it was painful waking up when the morning light streamed through the sheer blinds. Waylon was awake eating bread straight out of the bag, sitting in the uncomfortable armchair in the corner. He nodded at Miles but seemed nonverbal again.   
  
The host stretched and rubbed his tired eyes, frowning as eyelashes rubbed off on his hand. He tried not to pay attention.   
  
“Looks like last night was shit,” Waylon said after a long time. Miles’ pillow was soaked with blood and it was still dried on his cheek, neck and black crewneck.   
  
Miles frowned. “I-I-I don’t know what it’s going to d-do to me…”   
  
“I didn't' see too many patients while I was working there, but those I did looked... _rough_,” Waylon admitted. “God knows how much of that was Murkoff and how much was the walrider…”   
  
Miles got up feeling considerably stronger than the night before, tearing all the sheets off the bed. “We ssshould get going.”   
  
Waylon remained in the chair, quietly looking Miles over. “… I think I saw you in the asylum?”   
  
This made Miles stop and think. Every soul he’d met had seemed so twisted, so bland. The man before him had a soft round face, gentle eyes, an overall meek way about him. “... w-when?”   
  
“I think you helped me escape,” Waylon repeated. “Right at the door, right at dawn… the walrider, it killed Jeremy Blaire when he tried to stop me. I was ready to give up until then but it-it pushed me out. When I got in your car, I looked back and… I saw something different than the walrider, more solid, it… it looked like how you look to me.” He looked down, hastily wiping his eyes. Miles sat on his bed, trying to take it all in. “I should’ve waited for you, I had no idea… what if you’d been stuck there…?”  
  
It probably would’ve been for the better; now, Miles didn’t seem suited for much other than reliving the horrors of the asylum. “... I-I don’t remember,” Miles said very quietly, truthfully. _Did you save him? _He mentally asked Billy. The walrider answered with a positive.   
  
So the creature had some mercy.   
  
“Anyway, sorry, I’ve been so emotional,” Waylon wiped more tears. “You should shower and eat something, if you can. Then we’ll go.”   
  
He was right. He was such a dad. Two sons, one five, one seven, that he’d probably never see again. Both look more like his wife than him, but that just makes him love them more. _Get out of his head, _Miles reminded his dependent, _I can ask him about these kinds of things. _  
  
So he did have a shower. It was good to get the dried blood off of him, heated him up again, the tiny motel soaps smelled nice. He was disheartened when he coughed up a thick blood clot that swirled around the drain, but for the most part, he seemed alright. The blood on the floor of the tub looked like the engine. Everything looked like the engine.   
  
He was looking worse and worse. The black spider veins were extending now like a macabre tattoo, but he carefully covered up before entering the shared bedroom again. A hat would probably be the best idea for him, too, but he opted for a hood again.   
  
Waylon jumped when he opened the door, clearly not expecting him to be done so fast. His pant leg was rolled up, exposing a terribly pus-filled cut and a mass of bloody gauze next to him.   
  
Miles just stared for a second, brow furrowed. “W-w-what the, w-what the fuck is this?”  
  
Waylon’s face was sad but bemused. “You didn’t notice me limping all yesterday?”

Miles gestured one hand, the swarm slightly revealing itself as he moved. “Kinda pr-preoccupied here.”  
  
Waylon looked down and sighed. “From the asylum. I fell a couple stories, got some wood stuck in my leg. It doesn’t seem to be getting better.” He winced and weakly flexed his foot. “I think it might’ve hurt the muscle, I still can’t really walk.”   
  
“W-when were y-you going to tell me this?” Miles asked.   
  
Waylon sighed. “I’m not weak. I don’t want you to worry about me.”   
  
“You’ve seen e-everything I had to offer,” Miles insisted. “Y-you fucking s-saw me bleed, what, t-ten times already? N-no more secrets, Park, I-I’ll get the walrider to tell me if y-you don’t.”

Waylon exhaled and shook. “Fine. But it’s not a big deal, okay?” Miles was even more surprised to watch the other man pull up his shirt to reveal a taped on surgical bandage on his side. “I got stabbed there, too, but I got stitches! It’s gonna be fine.”

“W-why didn’t you get ss-stitches in your leg?” Miles asked.

“I did,” Waylon admitted. “But they fell out. I… I think I was walking on it too much.”

“Christ, Park, we’re not g-gonna get a-anything done if you’re bleeding out in the back of the car,” Miles frowned. “L-let me help wrap it. I-I’m driving today.”

So Miles redressed Waylon’s putrid wound. Miles attempted to withdraw as much cash as he could from his savings account (which, albeit, wasn’t much) but a little walrider scrambling let ATM deposit more cash than Miles had ever seen before. They used the computer in the motel’s workspace to look up the coordinates Miles had seen and recalled. They were heading to deep rural Arizona; their first day had been in the right direction.

“No passing out at the wheel,” Waylon ordered Miles, climbing into the passenger seat.

"I p-promise,” Miles nodded. He shuddered as the walrider unmade from him and settled like a heavy fog in the back seat. This cleared his head considerably.

“That is so fucked,” Waylon muttered.

“Believe m-me it’s w-w-waaaay more fucked than this,” Miles shook his head and barely smiled. “Try not to th-think about it t-too much.”

Waylon hummed and softly turned on the radio, leaning his head against the window next to him. They had quite the drive ahead of them. It wouldn’t take that long, the map they’d looked at told them a little more than twelve hours. There was no time to waste; they needed to do as much damage as they could in as little time as possible.

By the time they crossed into Utah, Waylon was asleep soundly next to him. Miles was drained, but not that tired. His mind felt like a computer, processing endless information effortlessly. He was bored and curious, but worried retracting inwards would put the car in jeopardy. Eventually, he got hungry (he needed to eat something; the nanomachines were surely depleting him of all the iron from his hemoglobin - all he craved was meat) and he woke Waylon as they parked at a small diner.

“Hey, Park, get u-up,” Miles gently prodded the other man’s arm. “You better e-eat something. We gotta be quick.”

Waylon blinked blearily at him. “Okay… okay…”

The diner they stopped at was a little run-down but comfortably quiet. Waylon left his hat on and Miles pulled the swarm back into his chest. The people inside were unassuming, and the two refugees had taken up the tale of brothers-in-law visiting whatever state they were in. It was strange how easily these people believed two men looking as awful as Miles and Waylon were could be on vacation.  
  
Waylon wasn’t very hungry but forced himself to eat a sandwich. Miles was ravenous, for the first time ever craving roast beef and consuming every molecule on his plate. Before the walrider, he was a vegetarian. Now, all he wanted was protein. After, they were on the road again, Waylon driving so Miles could rest now.  
  
As Miles dozed, Billy was back in his mind. _“This isn’t the way to Nathrop_.”  
  
_“Whatever, kid, we’re going to save people,”_ Miles dismissed him. _“We’ll see her after.” _  
  
_“You think you’re so good and noble,”_ Billy accused._ “The walrider is made for hate, Miles, it’s powered by fear and without other people, it’s gonna run you into the ground—”_  
  
_“How the fuck do you know my name?_” Miles shot back.  
  
Billy gave him an innocent look. _“I know everything, Miles, I made the swarm, I am the swarm, most of what’s in your blood right now was made by my cells. I can see every memory you’ve ever had, I can see everything you do, I can see own blood swim in your cock when you get hard looking at Park—”_  
  
_“Oh my god," _ Miles biterly interrupted, dragging his hands (whole, in his dream state) down his face. _"It's not like that, I've known the man for two days-"_  
  
_“Whatever, deny it all you want, it’s not important.”_ Billy leaned forward, tenting his fingers. “_What’s important is that if you don’t give the walrider the horror it needs, it’s going to fuck you up. You can’t sustain it. It took an asylum of two hundred patients who’d all ran through the engine to create enough machinery to summon it. And without it,”_ he shrugged. _“You’ll die.”_  
  
_“I’m already fucking dead,_” Miles spat._ “It wouldn’t kill the host._”  
  
_“Yeah, but it’ll find a new one,_” Billy pointed out, and Miles jerked awake.  
  
Waylon was staring at him, one hand on his arm. They were pulled over on the side of the road, headlights off, sky dark. “W-where are w-we?” Miles breathed, straightening up to look out the windshield in front of him.  
  
“Close to the Arizona state line,” Waylon whispered back. “Look…”  
  
In front of them, a few miles up the country road, a police roadblock was set up, checking the line of cars in front of them.  
  
“O-o-oh shit,” Miles stuttered. “Y-you think it’s for u-us?”  
  
“It’s too risky even if it’s not,” the tech guy confirmed. “I’m turning around, we’ll keep going in the morning.”  
  
“We’ll find another w-way!” Miles insisted. “We sh-shouldn’t stop, we’re so close.”  
  
“Miles, we have to be safe,” Waylon insisted. “We drove by a Holiday Inn not far back, we’ll spend the night there.”  
  
Miles didn’t have much of a choice as Waylon turned the car around and drove away with the headlights still off. The hotel was nice, quiet, another crisp room with two tightly dressed beds and slightly saggy mattresses. Waylon took another shower and grabbed snacks at the vending machine; Miles was a little preoccupied with a bigger problem.  
  
Staring at himself in the mirror, he was nearly unrecognizable. A thick bubbling black scar was forming on the side of his mouth, like a cut, like something spreading and infected. He furrowed his brow and touched it, but it didn’t sting at all. It was just there.   
  
_Your cell deaths are decreasing already, _Billy’s voice echoed through his mind. _That means cysts, tumors, fucked-up immune function. _  
  
_I don’t want to talk to you, _Miles shot back mentally. _Put the walrider back on. _  
  
This silenced Billy. Miles was left to his own thoughts, the swirling dark mass around him not providing much comfort. He rubbed the black scar again, wishing he had some sort of makeup. Why hadn’t Waylon said anything?  
  
“Miles… your hair?” Waylon said softly from behind him, shutting the door again behind him as he returned from his venture. He turned, a hand absentmindedly moving to the back of his head.   
  
Miles let out a soft cry as his hand came back with a tuft of hair.  
  
“W-what’s happening to me…?” he cried, tears welling in his eyes. Park, the tech guy, he’d worked at Murkoff for weeks, he had to know. “P-please, please tell me-e…”   
  
Waylon hadn’t seen Miles break down like this and it made him feel dreadfully guilty. If he hadn't sent that email, Miles wouldn’t be in this situation. But he clammed up, he was shuddering. So hot, so cold, the walrider’s energy making his mind go to soup. The more worked up Miles became, the simpler his mind became.   
  
Miles was crying louder now, sliding to the ground and tearing another handful of loose hair off the back of his head. Waylon just stared from where he stood by the door, paralyzed as the god before him wept. The walrider wrapped itself around Miles, tenuous smoke applying pressure, modeled after a hug but more like constriction. It was whirring and clicking softly, deep sounds that were supposed to be comforting. This was not what he needed right now.  
  
The host continued to cry, wails increasing until he was sobbing, open-mouthed, breaths uneven and the swarm decided he needed some space. When it pulled away from his body, the sobs stopped and he was left silently gaping, wet tears streaming down his cheeks.   
  
The distance from the swarm allowed Waylon to regain a bit of sanity, and he approached Miles, touching his arm, then his face, then sitting beside him against the wall.   
  
After a long time, Waylon regained the ability to speak. “It’s… probably something to do with the radiation.” Miles had to trust him; he had even less science background than the IT guy. “I know the walrider works like some type of cancer, it fucks up your cells so maybe that’s what’s making your hair fall out.”   
  
Miles stared for a second at Waylon’s head, a tiny bit of stubble starting to grow back. He crossed his arms. “I’m not f-fffuckking shaving my head.”   
  
“You don’t have to,” Waylon comforted him.   
  
Miles felt miserable. For a moment, his senses were transported to wherever the swarm was, somewhere outside hovering in the parking lot, watching people come and go. This brief double vision gave him terrible vertigo and he put his head between his knees. “I th-think I have to throw up,” he said softly and got to his feet.   
  
He lay in the bathroom with his head beside the toilet, weakly gagging but not able to bring anything back up. He focused in on what the walrider was seeing: a drug deal going down, people out for a smoke, someone trying car doors. It was enjoying the ambient fear, replenishing itself. Miles could see the spirit cord again, linking them together. How far could it go? How far had it gone from Billy?   
  
Another wave of nausea overcame Miles and he gagged. Again, he was unable to expel anything as the walrider kept his throat locked. He felt so sick but was unable to get rid of any of it. Eventually, a little bloody bile came up and he spit until he could get the taste out of his mouth, forcing himself dizzily to his feet and brushing his teeth.   
  
He felt sick when one of his molars came loose in his mouth.   
  
For a second, Miles just stared. He looked at it in the sink, staring at the white little pearl, probing the empty spot in his mouth with his tongue. He shuddered, put down the toothbrush and rinsed put his mouth.   
  
When he went back to the main room, Waylon was already under the covers, the main light turned off. Miles left the bathroom light on and the door half-open, slipping into his own bed then removing his sweater.   
  
Waylon made a quiet noise. “I miss my family.”   
  
Y’know, considering everything else Miles was going through, it was almost nice that something so mundane was Waylon’s biggest worry. “Th-they’re gonna be fine, Park…” Miles tried to comfort him.   
  
“I’m so weak,” Waylon cried. “I can’t do anything right, I’m lost, they’re the only reason I’m alive right now…”  
  
“Don’t s-say that,” Miles dismissed softly. “You got me, a-and I got you, al-lright?”  
  
Waylon sniffed. “I have no idea what I’m doing…”  
  
“Th-that’s why we’re doing i-it together,” Miles said.   
  
They lapsed back into silence and Waylon fell asleep before Miles did. The host was exhausted but afraid to sleep. Eventually, his tiredness overtook him and sleep came.   
  
It started as it had the night before: a few hours of NREM sleep, where Miles was actually replenishing his sleep debt, then a stop off at the grey room. Miles was at his wit’s end; every waking moment was becoming more and more of a nightmare. Billy was there again in a chair, looking exactly the same as before.   
  
_“I don’t want to talk to you_,” Miles said solidly. “_I want to talk to the walrider. I know it’s its own entity. I don’t know if it’s a machine or a spirit but I don’t care, if I’m host, I have to be the one in control.” _  
  
Billy rolled his eyes. “_Miles, I’m tied to you for as long as the walrider is. Don’t antagonize me.”_  
  
Miles shook his head and Billy evaporated along with the chair, the walrider forming before him. The whirring was so thick in his ears and it hurt his eyes to look at it, even in a dream state. It looked the same as it did in real life, no more defined than with the naked eye. It felt like looking at the sun.  
  
“_Look, I don’t want to be afraid of you,_” Miles told it very evenly. “_I_ _help you so you help me, right?_”   
  
It made a strange creaking, uneven moan, like a bow being dragged across something sharp. It made Miles’ inner ears hurt.   
  
“_I want to talk to you_!” Miles told it. “_I know you can communicate. You have with Park.”_  
  
It gave him an affirmative that hurt his head. “_If you can’t speak, put the information into my consciousness like you did when I was awake,_” Miles commanded. “... _Is that something you can do?” _  
  
Again, it confirmed, and Miles steadied himself. “... _why are these things happening to me?”_ he finally asked. “_Did they happen to Billy? Is it okay?” _  
  
It took a second, but loaded things into his head. Images, memories, other people’s thoughts, words like he was reading them from a book. Close up images from another point of view, Billy looking at dark veins where needles had been inserted. Bullets still buried inside Miles’ belly, spreading and being broken down, recycled and reused. Virions and cells dividing. The swarm is functioning as every body system Miles has and to keep him alive it takes a lot of effort. The input of new nanomachinery to replace those lost is far lower than it needs to be, hence this state of limbo can only be sustained for a short amount of time without a larger number of factories. Eventually, the host body will start dying and the swarm will die as well. To prolong the limbo phase, greater exposure to horror = greater output of new machines. The morphogenic engine is self-perpetuating, so no further exposure is needed; the epigenetic effect of cortisol on thymus cells promotes nanomachine formation.   
  
“_So I’m dying, and I can either prolong my life by having these horrible things happen or be okay but die very soon?” _he pieced together. The walrider confirmed.   
  
“_Even if you choose to get it to put all its power into your retention, it’s not going to be fun_,” Billy said softly, suddenly back, always lingering. “_It’s gonna hurt the whole time.” _  
  
Miles looked down sadly. “_Fuck_.”   
  
“_Waylon cares about you,_” Billy insisted. “_Use the walrider, see for yourself.” _  
  
_“I 'm not breaking his trust_.”   
  
“_That shit doesn’t matter ‘cause you’re gonna be dead in a few weeks,” _Billy pushed. “_He’ll sacrifice to help you. In the meantime, I’d suggest getting yourself a little horror. A little stress. I don’t want you to die.” _  
  
Miles swallowed. “_Are you upset I killed you?”_  
  
“_You didn’t kill me, you set me free,” _Billy naively said. “_Now we can see my mother. She’s been very sick.” _  
  
Miles hummed. “_Okay, Billy.”_ He wouldn’t let himself even think that that wasn’t true.   
  
“_Hope the dreams aren’t too bad_,” the other man gave him a gentle expression as Miles descended to a different level of dreaming.


	4. Chapter 4

Again, the nightmares lasted longer than they should. Miles didn’t wake this time, he seemed unable to. He continued to cycle, a little more light sleep then a bunch more recalled but twisted memories of the asylum. When he finally did wake, the sun was streaming through the windows and the light was still on in the bathroom. He stretched, feeling barely more rested than before. The walrider was still turned on, his head thrumming with its pulse. His pillowcase was red again and a trail of blood was dried from his nose. When he sat up, another tangle of hair was left behind him. Waylon was still in bed when Miles got up and stretched. That meant the host had first dibs on the bathroom.   
  
He passed on a shower today for fear of losing more hair but wiped down his bloody face and sweaty body with a damp towel. Physically, he did feel better after the night of horrors, but he was sure the swarm would be run down by nightfall.   
  
If all went well, their first job would be finished by then.   
  
Miles headed back to the main room to dress for the new day, and Waylon still hadn’t budged. After he was dressed, he knew it was time to wake the whistleblower. He stood next to the bed, put the walrider in the corner, and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Park… w-wake up, we should go.”   
  
Waylon rolled onto his back, shuddering, hair glued to his face, flushed and drenched in sweat. “W… where am I…” he managed.   
  
Immediately, a thousand warnings were flashing in Miles’ mind. Something was wrong with Park. His cold hand flew to Waylon’s hot forehead, the other man burning up. “P-p-Park, you’re really h-hot,” Miles spoke.   
  
“‘m married,” Waylon muttered, pulling the sheets around him again.   
  
“I-I mean warm,” Miles’ face heated. “Did y-you sleep with this s-sweater on?”   
  
“I was cold,” Waylon said.   
  
“Get this o-off of y-you,” Miles dragged the sheet down. “W-what’s happening…?”   
  
“I feel sore,” Waylon muttered again, shielding his eyes from the light.   
  
“O-oh shit…” Miles saw dark fluid stained on Waylon’s sheet. “P-please take your sweater off…”  
  
Waylon struggled to untangle himself from the sheets and (with Miles’ help) got his sweater and shirt off in one pull. Miles let out a sad cry when he saw Waylon’s gauze coloured dark red.   
  
“I-I think something’s wrong w-with your stitches,” Miles worried. “I’m taking th-the gauze off ok?”   
  
Waylon was in no state to consent, so Miles climbed onto the bed and peeled back the surgical tape. The stitches were pulling out and it was swollen and bloody. “Th-this doesn’t look good,” Miles said softly.   
  
“Check my leg, it burns,” Waylon said, eyes closed and head back.   
  
Miles dragged up Waylon’s pant leg and the bandage around the leg was even damper. His leg wound was blackened around the edges once the bandage was removed. Dark pus oozed around it. “Park, I-I think both your wounds a-are i-infected…” Miles said quietly. “W-we need a-antibiotics…”   
  
“Shhhhhit,” Waylon rubbed his face. “I don’t want to go to a doctor…”   
  
Neither did Miles. They didn’t have the time or the money to deal with this. “H-here, let’s go rinse th-these,” the host swung an arm around Waylon’s shoulder and tried to lift the limp man.   
  
“Ow…” Waylon cried softly. “Sorry, shit…”   
  
With a bit of trepidation, Miles got Waylon into the bathroom. “There’s bandages in the outside of my pack,” the other man told Miles, resting his head against the cold tile.   
  
The brunette moved quickly, digging through Waylon’s pack. His measly first aid kit was stocked with gauze, bandages, a few pill bottles and (thankfully) a bit of rubbing alcohol. Waylon was still loopy on the floor when Miles returned with the supplies, first wiping the bloody wounds down with another wet towel then getting a better look at them.   
  
“I’m gonna die,” Waylon desperately said, eyes rolling in his head. “I can see god.”   
  
“Y-you been seeing it since you met m-me,” Miles softly joked, handing Waylon an ibuprofen and some water. “Th-this will help with t-the fever.”   
  
Miles worked his best to wipe the pus out of the wounds, squeezing and draining them, trying to get the pieces of wood out from deep inside Waylon’s leg. He was trying his best to ignore the pained sounds from the other man.   
  
“Miles…” he said softly. “I think you need to use the… the swarm on me. I think it can heal me.”   
  
The walrider gave Miles the affirmative but he tightened his jaw. “I-I don’t want that. W-who knows what it’ll s-start… a-and we don’t know f-for sure it-it’ll work…”   
  
It had kept Wernicke alive. Somehow, Billy had kept that ancient man alive for years. If it could stop time, surely it could seal Waylon’s flesh wounds. It was trying its best to convince Miles of this, and he was starting to break. Waylon was as flushed as ever and they didn’t have time to waste, especially not with Miles’ current condition. He could hardly leave Waylon here; the man couldn’t fend for himself if the feds showed up.   
  
“Please,” Waylon begged. “I can’t stand this. I’m… I’m not strong enough, I don’t want to die here…”   
  
“Waylon!” Miles snapped his name for the first time. “Y-you’re not g-gonna die. I’ll… I’ll try it.”   
  
So Waylon pressed himself farther against the wall. Miles called the swarm back into him and placed his hands on either side of Waylon’s leg wound. Applying pressure, he focused his energy into commanding the walrider. _Heal. Enter Waylon. Close the wound. _The nanomachines swirled over his arms, the veins on his hands darkening and his skin absolutely buzzing with energy. He visualized the wound healing. The nanomachines entered the wound, cleaning the dead tissue, forming new cells and sealing the red away. Miles didn’t realize how loud he was groaning, but Waylon seemed strangely calm.   
  
When he pulled back and the black receded, the gash on Waylon’s calf was completely covered by pale scar tissue. The tech guy exhaled and flexed his foot. “Oh fuck, it’s completely better.”   
  
“D-do you think y-you can stand to have y-your side fixed t-too?” Miles panted.   
  
Waylon nodded. “It didn’t… hurt. It just felt like pressure.” He hesitated as Miles inspected his hands, the skin turning to a darker red. “... Did it hurt you?”   
  
Miles bit his lip and lied, “N-no. Stay still, I’m g-gonna do the o-other…”   
  
They repositioned so Miles could get a good hold of where Waylon had his stitches. He could visualize (through the swarm) how deep this cut went; the infection wasn’t on the surface but beneath it, in Waylon’s obliques. He repeated the procedure, focusing the cloud’s energy into the layers of Waylon’s tissue. When it was complete, he clipped the stitches with the tiny scissors in the first aid kit and eased them out.   
  
“Thank you,” Waylon breathed.   
  
“The fever sh-should go aw-ay in a-a bit,” Miles ensured him, leaning back next to Waylon on the bathroom floor. He felt like he’d just run a marathon, limbs like jelly, a little nauseous. As the black (the machines in his veins) began to decrease, he noticed patchy red already forming on his skin and arms. Radiation burns, the walrider fed him. His hands hurt to touch anything.   
  
_Funny that you can make him all better but I’ll never have my fucking fingers back, _he mentally teased his commensal. _Also, I’ll be fucking dead in a few days. _It gave a strange mockery of laughter and he smiled wryly.   
  
They both of them sat on the floor for a while, completely drained. They both jumped when there was a loud knock at the door and someone called, “Inspection!”   
  
The two men were suddenly very alert, looking each other in the eye, totally unsure of what to do. “Turn on the water, we have to hide in here,” Waylon commanded Miles, closing and locking the bathroom door. “Hopefully they’ll leave.”   
  
Miles turned the tap to simulate a shower and separated from the walrider, sending it out to the corner of their room to keep watch. Eventually, whoever was at the door forced it open, double vision revealing a hotel worker entered with two tactical cops with guns. “Th-they’re onto us…” Miles breathed to Waylon.   
  
The tech guy was shaking, definitely deep into an anxiety attack. Miles gripped his arm to steady him and prayed that they would disregard this room. He watched through the cloud as they began rifling through their bags. One piece of ID and they’d be fucked.   
  
Now, Miles has a choice. He had to use the walrider on them, or else he and Waylon would definitely be found. He could toss them around a bit and scare them, but then they’d be able to run off and tell. If he killed them, people would find out, but it would take a little longer. Was he ready to kill someone?   
  
The walrider didn’t want to wait. It saw Miles think _kill_ and it was ready. It rushed the larger of the cops and his body was completely vaporized within seconds. The hotel manager cried in surprise and ran with the other cop, but the walrider shredded them as well. Miles didn’t want to look. He could feel blood dripping from his nose.   
  
Waylon gave Miles a terrified look, not wanting to know, the morphogenic engine dancing over both of their fields of vision. The journalist got up and turned off the water. “We h-have to go. N-n-now.”  
  
Opening the bathroom door was horrible, both of them shaking, the blood on the walls transforming the simple room into something akin to the asylum. Waylon was gagging, holding the back of his hand to his mouth, trying his best to look away. They packed their shit hurriedly and locked the door to their room with the deadbolt from the inside to delay the bloody discovery. Waylon was still recovering from his delirious fevered state, so (as drained as Miles was) the journalist chose to drive. They zipped along the highway into Arizona, eager to find this location. The walrider gave the impression it was deep in the woods, but it would lead Miles once they got close. All of Murkoff's projects were inexplicably tied, so no wonder they all knew about each other.   
  
Within a few hours, Waylon was pretty much back to normal, and they were close. Off of main highways and only on rural routes or dirt roads, both men knew they were close. “You look like shit,” Waylon softly noted, rubbing his eyes and taking another drink of water. “Let’s pull over, I can drive for a bit.” 

  
Miles grunted. The swarm was humming loud, constructive interference with the sedan’s engine. He wished he were in his Jeep on this rough road. “W-we don’t h-have to.”   
  
Waylon put a hand on Miles’ arm. “You definitely overstretched yourself this morning so you better close your eyes for at least an hour, okay? Who knows what’s going to happen once we get there, so we need you in peak performance for both of our safety, Okay?”  
  
Miles was getting so weak he was nearly unconscious, so he did as Waylon suggested. Sitting in the passenger’s seat with his head against the window, he tried not to think about anything. He wanted the swarm to regenerate, sure, but he was emotionally exhausted, too. He didn’t want to think about the lives he’d ended that morning, the more lives he’d probably take that afternoon. He didn’t want to consider the very real possibility that Murkoff would be waiting for them when they got to this factory.   
  
_You know the way, right? _he mentally asked the swarm. It agreed. _Can you show Park even if I’m asleep? _Again, he got the positive, so he let himself slouch a little more, trying to get decently comfortable. Thankfully, the nanocloud helped put him under, and he didn’t even mind the nightmares.   
  
He awoke to the sound of the car shutting off and Waylon’s hand on his arm. “We’re here,” Waylon said softly.   
  
Miles swallowed, his jaw aching from being clenched. They were stopped by a dirt path on an access road before a looming factory with a massive radio tower, dwarfing the trees around it. Miles gulped, mouth dry. They were really doing this.   
  
“What are we even doing here…?” Waylon asked, taking the keys out of the car. “We’re so useless, how are we taking down a whole factory?”  
  
Miles opened his door, wind hitting his face. “Same way w-we took down Mount Massive. With luck.”  
  
The two hiked the path in silence. Miles was watching Waylon carefully, the other man starting to limp out of habit but the limp slowly decreasing. The walrider was thrumming with energy, reeling towards its sister project. Neither Miles nor Waylon had any idea what was going on here.   
  
They finally reached the factory, the walrider opening all doors for them so they could enter. It lead Miles and Waylon through catwalks — the place seemed strangely abandoned. A few workers were easily debilitated, the walrider knocking them out. Miles and Waylon took turns ripping out cables, power going down throughout the factory. Plenty of monitors displayed code lines, sine graphs, signals winking in and out. Miles’ time in the factory was a blur; the walrider was extremely spread apart, paying special attention to everything. Miles was barely conscious, following Waylon, unable to take in the documents he looked at, the rooms he entered, what he felt.  
  
Waylon opened a door at the edge of the factory and the two found themselves outside again at the foot of the radio tower. Before them, a massive lake spread, wind whipping up and wrapping their clothes around them.   
  
“What the fuck are they doing?” Waylon muttered, looking at the tower.   
  
“G-god knows, but I-I’m sure it’s j-just as awful as the a-asylum,” Miles quivered. The walrider swirled around him in anger. “T-take it down…” he commanded.   
  
The two men watched as the swarm encompassed one base of the tower. The metal rusted at an elevated rate, gaining holes as the walrider ate away at it. It creaked terribly, already listing to the side. Miles craved a cigarette, watching all this destruction occur before him. Waylon was shaking, and Miles put a hand on his arm. With a barrage of sparks, the tower arced down. Waylon stared.   
  
“L-let’s go,” Miles pulled Waylon away by his hand. “Let’s get out of here.”   
  
The two fled, the factory starting to burn behind them. What was next was unknown. Miles was definitely bleeding from his ears, trying to summon every ounce of the walrider back to him. He was laughing, then he was coughing, and Waylon loaded him back in the car and they drove.  
  
Waylon was shaking and Miles was losing control, teetering on the edge of consciousness. Now, he was the delirious one, the walrider more alive than he was. Without his restraint, the swarm manifested and fogged up the car. It melded with Waylon, connecting their minds.  
  
“_What the fuck are we doing now?” _Waylon was thinking, sweating, not willing to speak.  
  
Miles saw Waylon’s mind for the first time, his logic, his aura, reading his thoughts and feeling his emotions. He could hardly comprehend what he was experiencing and responded aloud to Waylon’s question: “W-we find the next p-place and do it ag-gain.”  
  
Waylon gave him a dubious look. “Are you using it on me?”  
  
Miles sighed and buried his filthy face in his hands. “I-I’m so ffffucking sorry, I just c-can’t control it… I-I’m so f-fried…”  
  
Waylon's expression became gentler. “Oh… I’m sorry…”  
  
Miles shrugged and groaned. He didn’t have time to comfort this sorry excuse for a partner. His body burned like he was under a tanning light, skin itching, hands darkening, heart pumping. He honestly felt like he was going to die. He was scared.  
  
“We… we should hide now,” Waylon suggested. Miles grunted and the other man comforted him, “I know you want to get as much done as you can in the least amount of time, but you obviously need to rest. You look awful, your face is so fucking gaunt and the swarm is freaking the fuck out.”  
  
Miles had never heard Waylon swear this much. He must’ve really been panicking. Miles was not in a state to argue, completely spent, fighting for breath. Would destroying the factory make a difference? Had his sacrifice been enough? God knows what they were doing, who they were projecting that radiation down onto. Miles prayed he’d done the right thing.  
  
He went into a sort of stasis while Waylon drove, he himself unconscious but vaguely aware of what the swarm was experiencing. His body was paralyzed; no energy would be wasted while the walrider tried to repair itself. Miles could sense holes in it; it looked less like a body and more like a skeleton in his mind’s eye. _He’d worked it to the bone_. The radio sounded like inkblots.  
  
It took Waylon a long time to realize Miles’ state was deteriorating. The other man was turning grey, for crying out loud, looking like he’d lost litres of blood. When Waylon finally tried to wake Miles (afraid he was dead, of course), the host jerked back to life, panting, demanding, “p-pull over,” and not waiting for the car to stop, leaning his head out the window and vomiting thick black blood onto the side of the car. The lead felt heavy in his gut. Waylon gagged at the stench.  
  
“We need to stop,” Waylon decided. “You need… something. You need to tell me what you need, I’ll get it for you, Miles, okay? Next motel we see we’re stopping, alright?”  
  
Miles was out again, trying desperately to recall the feeling of Trager removing his fingers. Trying to make his heart pump, trying to trick his brain into secreting ACTH, anything so he’d be able to host again.  
  
Miles hardly noticed when they stopped again. Waylon left him in the car while he rushed in to get them a room, cooking up a half-believable lie, pulling out his most charming smile, completely denying to himself that he’d just destroyed a multi-million dollar facility and was harboring a techno-eldritch god. He grabbed the cheap key (analog, thankfully. Miles had been tending to discharge the electronic cards) and found their room. He dragged in his and Miles’ packs then went back for the other man. Miles was slouched in his seat like an invalid; Waylon was almost afraid to touch him.  
  
“I’m just trying to help,” he said softly as the swarm nipped at his skin as he tried to pick up Miles. “I’m on your side…”  
  
The walrider was able to wake Miles who still needed to lean hard onto Waylon as they walked towards the door. The cloud of black around him must have been visible to the visitors (despite it not being clear without the engine exposure) but they didn’t care.  
  
“I-I-I-I… I-I’m f-fff-f… fine…” Miles tried hard to speak but his brain was melting fast, his throat closing. Waylon locked the door behind them and closed the deadbolt. Before the other man could do anything, Miles forced himself into the bathroom, running cold water on his x-ray burned hands. His whole body was so hot.  
  
His legs shook to stand, so he sat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the cold tile. He took off his sweater to find his entire chest, arms, neck, torso covered with thick pulsing black veins. His skin looked papery against it. From the pile of included toiletries sitting on the counter, Miles grabbed the razor. He’d done this before, he had scars to prove it. He didn’t try to silence his moans and cries as he shredded the skin on his arms, letting the blood flow out and thicken the cloud around him, letting his pulse increase and letting production resume. He focused hard on the pain, finally feeling something real after the afternoon of phantom twinging. He felt every millimetre, willing himself to panic so he could sustain his swarm. He didn’t want the machines to be wasted fixing the flesh; he cut shallow, more to cause pain than to do any real damage.  
  
Of course, Waylon heard his weak cries. The other man knocked timidly at the door. “…Miles? Is… is everything okay?” Miles didn’t reply; there was no time for something that mundane. After a few more knocks, he started pushing, eventually forcing his way in. Within a second, Waylon knew what was going on, smacking the blade out of Miles’ hand and grabbing him by the arms. “No! What the fuck!?”  
  
This, clearly, caught Miles by surprise, and the swarm repelled Waylon when he contacted Miles. His hands drew back smoking and he cried out. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Waylon cried, tears coming to his eyes. “I thought we were in this together!”  
  
“’m n-not... trying t-to die…” Miles managed softly, feeling so weak. “Th… the swarm needs horror, i-it needs s-something to h-help make itself…”  
  
“Let me fucking help!” Waylon snapped. He pushed Miles back against the wall, not flinching as the swarm pushed back. “I was in the fucking engine, I _know _I’m what you need! You think you’re saving me but you’re not! If I lose you, I’m nothing!”  
  
Miles was panting. “I… when i-it feeds, it’s h-horrible…”  
  
“I don’t care,” Waylon was adamant. “Let it bleed me. I’ve been through worse.”  
  
The swarm was desperate for another meal, and Miles wasn’t in the place to say no. Waylon helped him wobble to the main part of the room – it had a single bed, but Miles hardly cared about these things anymore. Ironic, amusing, like something out of a cheap romcom. He wished life was still that normal. He lay upside down, chest still bare, feet propped up on the headboard to keep his blood at his vitals. It was like some sort of ritual: the black swarm manifested on the ceiling above him, Park lying the proper way in the bed with his shirt off and a towel under his head (because they both knew by now there would be blood).   
  
“I-if i-it ssstarts being t-too much, c-call for me,” Miles was quaking, muscles locking up. _This isn’t going to become a regular thing, _he sternly reminded his commensal. The walrider cried.   
  
Waylon was trying his best to get comfortable, lying with the thin sheet on top of him, arms gently crossed over his chest (like a corpse) waiting for sleep (and the walrider) to descend on him. He was quaking; that’s what it needed. Miles’ eyes were the only thing that could move as the swarm moved down onto Waylon, pressing the breath out of him and forcing him into a dreamlike state. As it pooled in the gaps between his cells, locking into Waylon’s specific electrical signature, Miles lost his own consciousness. He felt outside of his body, on the ceiling with the wraith, looking down and his own body next to Waylon’s, yin and yang. He was a spectral spectator now, entering Waylon’s mind much like Billy’s consciousness had been brought along into him. He was drained, he didn’t pay much attention.   
  
The swarm processed all of Park’s memories, sorting them by effectiveness and running the tape. Miles could feel Waylon’s heartbeat as if it were his own. He could see the morphogenic engine clearer than ever, actual distinct overlays instead of blurs on top of static. He saw the walrider through Waylon’s memory, far clearer and more defined than he’d ever imagined. The priest’s voice echoing in his subconscious, _will you see it, can you, _predispositions he and Billy and Waylon shared. Regardless, the software tech had been catalyzed and was the perfect nightmare factory for the haunted hanger-on.   
  
Miles lost himself in a blur of meaningless words, using this as an opportunity to turn his brain off. He prayed that if Waylon needed him, the swarm would be able to connect them.   
  
He floated through Waylon’s dream as a visitor, not actively taking anything in. He felt rested, mostly just because he couldn’t feel his body anymore. They’d never talked about their traumas; all they knew was that they shared this experience, nothing more. Miles saw horrible, twisted victims, heard Waylon’s own cowering breath sounding so much like his own. He could feel blood running out of the corner of his mouth. After a second take, he was unsure if it were his mouth or Waylon’s.   
  
This new take on things gave him a little more respect for the other man. With the rush of beating Murkoff and his preoccupation with the walrider, Miles hadn’t been able to give Park much thought. He hadn’t considered if he should hate the man for sending him into these horrors, for taking away the part of him that made him real. He always knew, deep down, that Waylon had already been punished enough; they were on the same side, they both wanted what was happening to stop. Miles hadn’t been bothered to consider if he liked or disliked Waylon, found him interesting, attractive, charismatic, boring, and he hadn’t needed to. Now, he was starting to.


	5. Chaper 5

When it was done, the walrider receded into Miles and he could feel himself again. Both Waylon and Miles slept now, soundly, recovering, identical twin blood stains on the top and bottom of the bed. The spirit cord linked Miles and Waylon’s navels as the rest of the exchange passed. The two slept soundly for the rest of the day and into the night, both waking with a shuddering breath at 3:33 am.  
  
Waylon was panting, bags under his eyes but otherwise looking fine. His eyes found Miles in the dim light. “Are you feeling better?”  
  
Miles was. He felt nearly back to normal, but he hated to admit it. “Yeah,” he breathed. His skin was warm to the touch again, his bones didn’t ache. His hair was still patchy and the terrible scarring on the side of his face was still there, but physically, he felt better. He was hungry. The humming was more even now, the swarm seemed happy. Waylon had done his job. “W-was it bad for you?” Miles sat up and scratched some more hair off of the side of his head.  
  
Waylon rolled onto his side and rubbed at the crusted blood on the corner of his mouth. “I was expecting worse. It sounds like it was worth it.”  
  
Miles rubbed his eyes. “Do you feel rested?”  
  
Park nodded halfheartedly. “Hungry.”  
  
The two ate some of Waylon’s non perishables and turned all the lights on in the motel, sitting on the bed, leaning back beside each other, smiling, relaxed. The swarm hovered between them, bringing the buzzing back to their bones, but it was comfortable. The cuts on Miles’ arms were healing through the swarm, skipping the scab phase right into scar tissue. God was silent.  
  
After an hour, their endorphins tapered off and the two lapsed back into silence. Miles sent the walrider out into the parking lot to get some air and he showered, getting dried blood off him and shaving his face then his head. Nothing mattered. Although Waylon had saved him, earlier that day was the closest he’d been to death in the last few days. How many more chances would he have?  
  
So he shaved. The prideful Miles Upshur who was vain and beautiful was dead as well. He didn’t care, he was coming to the end of his life and needed to get his last couple experiences. Denial was over. He didn’t cover the veins on his upper arms anymore, he was not afraid to show his chest.  
  
Back in the front room, Waylon had the TV on. He glanced at Miles and was surprised to find his head bald. Dark cancerous veins were starting to become pronounced from the back of his neck up, but Waylon wouldn’t mention it. Waylon gave him a soft expression. “… It was probably good that you did that. Look.”  
  
The TV was tuned to whatever local Arizona news station there was, and his and Waylon’s faces were plastered on the screen. His heart sunk as he sat on the foot of the bed beside Park. He rubbed his forehead. “F-fuck,” he stuttered.  
  
“They’re calling us terrorists,” Waylon said softly. “I just… I want to do the right thing_ so badly_, but every time I try, people get hurt.”  
  
“We’re not heroes, P-Park, we’re never going t-to be,” Miles said quietly. “We’re helping, don’t doubt it.”  
  
“It’s just gonna be hard from here on out,” the whistleblower looked back at him, despair making his voice waver. “Do we keep going?”  
  
Miles shook his head. “I-I don’t know.” A tense silence spread between them, worry spreading in the room. On the screen, they flashed to a closer picture of Waylon, must have been from the time before since he looked so different. The situation was so ridiculous that Miles laughed absurdly. “God, you l-look funny.”  
  
Waylon frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
Miles shook his head, putting his face in his hand. “Why do you have b-blond hair? A-Aren’t you Asian?”  
  
“Half Korean, and so what if I dye it?” Park crossed his arms defensively.  
  
Miles laughed out loud again, and the nanomachine was laughing with him, doubling an octave below. He ran his hands over his face, over his newly bare scalp. “T-too fucking rich…”  
  
Waylon shook his head, getting defensive: “Stop! Why are you doing this?”  
  
Miles squinted his dark eyebrows at the other man. “W-what the fuck? I-I-I’m just tryna joke. Everything’s been s-so serious I need… I-I mean, we’re le-literally on the r-run from the feds t-together, the least we can d-do is be f-f-friendly…” Waylon still seemed upside, eyes narrowed and arms crossed. “C-come on, i-it was a joke. Y-you’re hot, i-is that what you w-want to hear?”  
  
Park snorted air sarcastically. “Definitely. Are you gay?”  
  
Miles flopped back on the bed, feeling drained by this conversation. Why did he try again? “W-what does it f-fucking matter. You g-got dating tips for t-the dead?” Waylon was shaking his head, the conversation was dwindling. The room was too quiet without the humming of the swarm. “H-hey, sorry that u-upset you. M-make fun of me.”  
  
Waylon narrowed his eyes. “You’re ugly,” he exhaled, “fuck, it doesn’t work if it’s not true.”  
  
“W-why don’t you m-make fun of me f-for being gay,” Miles crossed his arms behind his head. “P-people usually like that one.”  
  
Waylon leaned onto his side. “I’m not a homophobe. And so you are?”  
  
Miles shook his head. “Was. D-don’t think about that m-much anymore. You too?”  
  
Waylon looked at the wedding ring on his hand. “Not really…”  
  
This sudden break into intimacy caused a confession to fly to Miles’ tongue. He suddenly wanted to tell Waylon that he was dying, that he’d be dead within weeks, that all this was worthless and he should go catch up with his family. But he had a conundrum on his hands. Without Park, the swarm would be able to sustain itself for a much shorter amount of time. With him, he’d be harming them both for no good reason. Selfishly, he kept his mouth shut, still undecided.  
  
“I think I may sleep again,” Waylon stretched. “We should probably keep driving tomorrow. They’ll be looking for us around the facility.”  
  
“W-where?” Miles asked. Where was there left to run?  
  
Waylon scratched his stubbly head. “T... there was a document about another facility, patients higher security than project walrider. Something worse than mount massive. They called it the... some weird name, something German?”  
  
The walrider dug into Waylon’s memory to retrieve what he couldn’t. “Zeichner, Murkoff ARD,” Miles read from Waylon’s grey matter. “W-What does that mean?”  
  
“Accelerated Rehabilitative Disposition,” Waylon recited. “I heard talk about it while I worked there. God knows where it’s located, though.”  
  
Miles tried to get the walrider to search memories for talk of it, any employees who had been relocated, any hint. “Canada,” he found. “Somewhere n-north, or west, in mountains like these...”   
  
“They were transferring patients,” Waylon suggested. “That means there’s only more horror there. We have to go, we have to try.”  
  
To drive that far would take at least two more days. Who knew what would happen before them, who knew what the border held. At least it was a destination. Miles agreed and let Waylon sleep. He spent the rest of the night meditating, feeling the walrider without exerting it too much, watching from its eyes instead of his own.   
  
_Did you like Waylon? _he asked the swarm. It affirmed. _Do you feel better? _Another yes. Miles hesitated, wanting to ask but fearing the answer. He didn’t have to verbalize it, the walrider was already confirming his thoughts: he knew Waylon would be a good host. Murkoff’s flaw was believing it would be the minds of madmen that could sustain the demon cloud; it needed a sane mind driven to insanity to become the perfect nano-factory. Waylon’s longer exposure to the engine made him a prime candidate; did anything separate Miles from him? Plus, wouldn’t a healthy host be better than one eternally dying?   
  
These were anxious thoughts Miles pushed away. He went out for a walk with the swarm as his protection, Waylon’s ball hat on under his raised hood, mangled hands buried deep in his sweater pockets. He had to think; he didn’t want the walrider lingering too long on any of his thoughts. It was surprisingly cool for the desert; the skies were dark, the wind was cool. The swarm was able to keep him warm again. _Don’t leave me, _he begged it. It didn’t respond. 

* * *

Miles didn’t sleep anymore that night, so it passed slowly. He wrote jibberish on the note paper on the desk; something akin to poetry, but a little too ambiguous, no symbolism he could pick up on a conscious level. It was something derived from the walrider’s ambience; a mishmash of sounds in Billy’s voice, sometimes making words. It was hard to write with his mangled fingers, but the swarm acted as a crutch, applying pressure when he needed. He picked at the scabs on his face until he bled and one of his fingernails lifted off (he grimaced hard and covered it with a bandage). He ate beans cold out of the can. He went for another walk.   
  
As the sun rose, he became aware of what the walrider was seeing as well; double vision taking a second to sink in. He could see the spirit cord, linking him to his parasite, but also stretching back along the road. Miles turned back and followed it, leading back towards the motel behind him. _It leads to Waylon? _he asked. _Are we linked now? _The walrider gave him two big validations.   
  
Christ. So much for strangers with a shared purpose.   
  
The walrider knew Waylon already meant more to Miles than that. It showed him symbols, dark open caves, flowers growing into juicy fruits. It made his whole body warm and fuzzy; it made him crave to be touched. He was only now realizing just how touch-starved he was; something he hadn’t cared about much before the asylum, but hadn’t gotten any of after. Would he die without human contact ever again? The swarm definitely seemed averse to the idea.   
  
He was back inside the motel by the time Waylon woke up. He didn’t feel tired, just bored, encouraging the other man to get up, dress, pack what little they had and leave the money at the front desk before anyone got suspicious. Miles was a little uneasy, likely thanks to the sleepless night. As good as the swarm was feeling, it didn’t do much to help Miles’ emotional state. He knew this was a high point, but he’d likely regress backwards again.   
  
“We sh-should switch cars again,” Miles suggested, rubbing his sore finger stumps.  
  
Waylon nodded. “Let’s drive.”  
  
They went north now, taking smaller rural routes instead of the major highways. They traded their sedan and too much cash for a hatchback parked on someone’s lawn and drove through the day. Miles was taking his turn driving, but the swarm was antsy. He was feeling aggressive, partially from being tired, partially from containing the swarm for so long. Miles was gripping the wheel hard, car engine not nearly powerful enough for his liking. _Doesn’t it hurt you to kill people?_ Miles mentally berated the swarm. _Shouldn’t you not want that? _ It ignored him. His eyes burned, the tech swirling around him so thick it was obvious.  
  
“Miles,” Waylon said softly, looking over at the other man gritting his teeth. “Are you okay?”  
  
Miles’ gaze darted to the tech guy. **“We’re fine,”** he said in a voice distinctly un-Miles.  
  
Waylon was shaking; he didn’t know what was happening to the other man. “Here, you should rest, I’ll take over driving for a bit.” Somehow, he convinced Miles to step down; it was clear the host was being overwhelmed by the renewed mass of nanotechnology. It physically hurt Miles’ head to have his consciousness overridden by the hive mind, filling him with bloodlust and rage. Even in the passenger seat, Miles couldn’t rest. This was the first time ever the swarm had been at terminal mass and Miles had been conscious; it was trying to find an equilibrium of control. Before, Miles could easily overpower it. Now, it was testing.  
  
Miles’ neurons were firing wildly, all his senses overwhelmed as the swarm tried to perceive them as well. Every touch — his clothes on his skin, the tickle of loose hair on the back of his neck, the dry air blown into his eyes from the AC — was like pain. Allodynia. Soft touch cells were being confused with nociceptors. Nerve fibres were mingling together. The sun seemed too bright even through the overcast sky. He could hear every rotation of the cheap engine. He could hear every rotation of the blood through Waylon’s circulatory system.  
  
“Miles, ya gotta come back,” Waylon was saying gently. “I can see the swarm all over you. I can see it in your eyes — they’re completely black. They don’t get like that unless it’s taking over. Split with it, buddy, send it outside—“  
  
“D-don’t FUCKING say that word—“ Miles boomed and the swarm screeched, the engine of the car stalling, the radio reprogramming. The car slowed to a stop. Waylon put on the flashers and left it in neutral. He just stared at the other man, the rage on Miles’ face, black covering his whole body until he was nothing more than a shadow. He terrified Waylon, and the worst part was the tech guy didn’t even know what he’d done wrong.  
  
Miles was upset. “Y-you can’t just fu-fucking say shit like that! Y-you think it’s funny? Y-you like it, darling? F-fucking darling darling _darling_, you like that?”  
  
Waylon was shaking, eyes growing red. He shook his head no and dragged his hands down his face. He opened his mouth for a long time, exhaling and finally forcing himself to speak. “I-I didn’t know, okay? I’m sorry! Stop it, Miles, I know you’re not cruel!”  
  
Miles shook his head fast, scratching his neck hard. “Y-you talk a lot f-for someone with s-social anxiety.”  
  
Waylon looked down, shaking his head and covering his face. “It’s because I trust you.”  
  
Miles leaned his head against the window. “You sh-shouldn’t. You should fucking leave me on the s-side of the road.”  
  
Waylon still looked disturbed. “Miles, this isn’t you. I know you’re not doing this, it’s okay, I can deal with the swarm. I know you’re in there, I’m trying to be patient...”  
  
“It’s m-making me insane!” Miles cried, scratching a phantom itch on the back of his neck. “I’m not i-insane. I… I c-can control it.”  
  


“Please don’t hurt me,” Waylon begged.

Miles forced himself to shut up and let Waylon continue driving them. He took every ounce of his consciousness to will the walrider down, to force his mind off of blood and guts. He tried his hardest to ignore the overstimulation, the miscalculated sensory overload. He separated with the swarm, letting it coat the back seat of their car thickly, not caring about his heart stopping anymore. He didn’t want to go to the grey room, he didn’t want to see Billy. He knew the younger man would be disappointed that they wouldn’t be seeing his mother next. Billy also was not hesitant to tell him things he didn’t want to know; he was especially afraid of this since Waylon’s harvest.

He distracted himself by looking at the other man. Park  _ looked  _ like a dad; he had a soft face, strong but not toned body. He was better with hair, but his chrome dome hadn’t exactly been consensual. His eyes were kind; his heritage clearly showed despite his pale body hair. He was caring and patient, a fine man to father his two boys.

Being around Waylon was scaring him. He was unsure if Waylon could see the spirit cord between them; if he couldn’t, what would he think? The ideal would be for them to hit a few more facilities, Park take off and meet up with his family, start a new life, and Miles quietly perish somewhere, something poetic (that was all he wanted).

Park was far too kind to him. He didn’t deserve this; Miles didn’t deserve a partner in crime. He was so willing to give so much to a man he’d just met.

(Maybe it was because he already knew he had taken so much from Miles.)

Midway through the afternoon, they had to stop in Utah for groceries. They both had barely eaten anything fresh in the last few days, some real fruit or vegetables definitely wouldn’t hurt. Miles refused to enter the small grocery store; he knew he looked hellish, the terrible bubbling scarring from his mouth still healing over, black veins showing on his neck now, his hands. Waylon wore his hat and took Miles’ requests. It felt so domestic, watching the other man walk (not limp) back from the door with arms full of groceries: mostly non-perishables, but more bread and some fruits, too.

“Who w-would’ve thought I’d miss a-apples so much,” Miles took a juicy bite of some variety, big and red.

Waylon was drinking a can of ice tea. “You’re talking like it’s been a lifetime.”

Miles gave him a soft look. “H-hasn’t it?” He lowered his eyes, wiping juice off his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “A-also, sorry about before… the w-wa… the swarm’s been d-doing some weird things since…”

Waylon put a hand on Miles’ arm. “Did it not work?”

“N-no, you d-definitely helped, i-it might be too strong now,” Miles quickly covered. “I j-just… don’t want it getting… a-attached to you. Getting d-dependent.”

“Miles,” Waylon’s eyes were sad. “I was in the engine. Parts of it before I even met you were already from my blood. We can’t help it getting attached.”

That’s exactly what Miles didn’t want to hear. He flashed out for a second, the swarm giving him a false memory, one of Billy’s. He saw the orb before the engine with the ex-host inside. The spirit cord was there, extending from the walrider down to Billy but with a thousand other extensions, some weaker, barely visible, some thicker, the one tying him to Billy as tenuous as a cable. Every person that had ever seen the engine was a potential host. A variety of other factors determined how good a host it would be. Many would not be able to sustain a full-fledged, conscious, powerful swarm — that was why it had taken so long to reach a lateral ascension at Mount Massive.  
  
Miles returned to reality, shaking. The spirit cord between himself, the swarm, and Waylon, were all equally thick. He was attached, whether he liked it or not.  
  
Miles never wanted to be the host. He was returning mentally now to those first hours in his apartment, discovering the horrible new commensal inhabiting his empty husk. He wouldn’t wish it on anybody; the constant horror and pain he lived in were clearly more than necessary (keeping a corpse a”live” took extreme power, he’d give it that) but Billy looked in constant pain. To keep the walrider functioning well (as Billy had) the host had to constantly remain in that dreaming state. It had worn the life out of Billy; Miles had freed him.

The last thing he wanted was for the swarm to give up on him and transfer to the next suitable man in line. Park had a life to get back to: Lisa and the boys, the mantra that had gotten him through the nightmare. Miles didn’t really have anything, which is why he was okay with being host. Sure, it sucked knowing his days left were extremely limited, but at least he’d do something with his life. He’d be alright with fading away if it meant no one else would have to suffer. He knew it was unlikely Park would be able to do much after he’d passed, so at least this way, they were working closer to his family. Maybe after Murk ARD it would be the right time to send Waylon on his way and to find somewhere to let it end. Maybe that time would never come.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoot, guess I won't get this all posted by halloween (curse you midterms!!) More to come soon! :)

They stopped for the night once they were in Idaho. The police presence was getting higher, so when they drove now, one would always have to be hunched in the back to make it appear there was only one person in the car. Miles supposed he could probably use the walrider to bamboozle any city cop trying to pull them over, but he didn’t want to risk it. As the day ended, Miles was run down again. It started with him being comfortably tired; sleepy, the walrider returning to a little below its normal function, what Miles was used to. The hypersensitivity was gone and Miles was numb, but it wasn’t bad. He was slightly dizzy when he turned his head too quick; something akin to being drunk. 

For once, he wasn’t really experiencing any horror. He could look at the sun peeking through the clouds at the horizon, feeling its warmth on his face, and knew the insanity earlier today was worth it. 

_ Is this my last nice day on earth?  _ he mentally teased the swarm.  _ Planning to take me out behind the barn and shoot me tomorrow?  _ It didn’t understand his sarcasm but didn’t need to reply. 

Watching the sun illuminate Waylon like a halo was very calming as they parked their hatchback by the small motel, grabbing their bags and groceries and making their way inside. Miles was generally warm, feeling a little heat in his face. He didn’t care about his disfigurement; people could stare at dark veins creeping up his neck, but he knew they wouldn’t ask. 

Miles and Waylon settled in, the tech guy spending a little while in the business centre to set up a new email and try to contact Lisa. The journalist felt a little sad inspecting his beaten-up body. The lead in his stomach had spread a little more, distinct grey undertones on his torso beneath the black pulsing veins. He’d never look like himself again, and he was starting to miss it. 

In the time it took Waylon to return, Miles’ numbness grew. He appreciated that the swarm was backing off, but it was maddening in it’s own way. He stood in the bathroom with hot water running over blue hands, trying to feel anything to make him feel human again. Waylon returned and saw this spectacle, steam coming off of the already radiation burned hands and frowned. “What’s wrong? What are you doing?” 

Miles quickly withdrew his hands in shame. Even Waylon’s voice was muffled; he looked kind of like a smear on Miles’ cataract eyes. “I c-can’t feel anything n-now,” Miles’ own voice sounded underwater to his own ears. He rubbed at the canal with the palm of his hand. 

Waylon set his jaw. “I… is there anything I can do?” 

Miles looked down. “W-well, yeah, b-but I don’t wa-want to ask…” 

Waylon sighed and sat on the bed. “We’ve been through a lot, Miles, god knows what’s coming next. I don’t want us to have to hide anything from each other.” 

“I… want you to t-touch me,” Miles’ face as hot. “B-but only what you want. S-so I can feel a-again.” 

Waylon’s face softened. “Come here.” Miles sat on the thin carpet floor at Waylon’s feet as the other man gently put his hands on his shoulders. “The swarm is… pushing me. Can you send it away?” 

Miles nodded gently and focused his energy to get the walrider manifested in the corner, then through the wall. He could barely feel his heart stop anymore; barely noticed the death rattle breath he gave out. Waylon also didn’t notice, or didn’t care. Now, the tech guy’s hands could kneed his shoulders through his long-sleeved shirt, rubbing his trapezoids in an even pattern, stretching the muscles from his shoulders up to his neck. Waylon could see the darkness in his veins seemed a little less; still, most of the lymph enclosed in Miles’ circulatory system was tech, and the minority was definitely real hemoglobin. He didn’t care; this was his cross to bear, it was his fault this young man would never have a friend or a career or a life again. The least he could do is help him with anything he needed. 

“M-more…” Miles whispered. 

“Can I take off your shirt?” Waylon whispered back. 

“Y-you won’t believe w-what you see,” Miles whispered back. 

“I won’t look, I promise,” Waylon said gently, pulling at the neck of the tee. He worked it up over Miles’ bare head, revealing the back full of walriderous veins. True to his word, Waylon kept his eyes locked on the middle distance. His hands kneaded deeper, the same reversal from before working: the heavy pressing from Waylon’s thumbs felt like the lightest touch, barely tickling over Miles’ skin. Still, it was heaven to finally receive real stimulation (versus the swarm’s imitation) and it made him feel the closest to human he’d felt since the asylum. 

There was something very intimate about the two of them sitting in silence, Waylon’s hands massaging Miles’ upper back. This was a liminal time; it was unlikely either of them would ever be in the situation again. It was completely unwinding both of them – anxiety melted away with the swarm at a distance. 

“My wife…” Waylon started, stopped, and reconsidered, “Lisa says… Lisa says she thinks she’s pregnant.” 

Miles licked his lips. He thought that was unfortunate news but was trying to gage Waylon’s response before he replied. When the other man made no motion, he hummed and said, “Oh?” 

“It just…” Waylon was digging his hands in harder. “It scares me. In so many ways. These times are so uncertain, the last thing we need is another baby… even if none of this had happened, we weren’t planning to after we had Theo… a-and to think what would’ve happened if I’d fucking died in there, never knowing?” 

“S-sounds terrible,” Miles finally verbalized, swallowing thickly 

“I just… I don’t know how it happened…” Waylon was getting distracted now. “We’ve been so careful, a-and to be honest, we haven’t really… well,  _ done it  _ in a while. I haven’t seen her or the kids in weeks, I just…” 

“D-don’t linger on it, Park,” Miles could see the direction his companion’s mind was going. “It d-doesn’t matter now. It’ll all work o-out in the e-end.” That was a confident assumption for Miles; there were so many variables, so many things that could go wrong. He knew that’s what Waylon needed to hear. 

“E-enough about you,” Miles dismissed. “C-can we sit a different w-way?” The whistleblower nodded and scooted back onto the bed; Miles slid up onto the bed as well, lying on his side facing away with Waylon now rubbing his hands over his sides. The two were spooning with enough room for god in between. 

Miles sighed with relief, coming back more and more to reality. He was happy he wasn’t looking right at Waylon. “W-when I was y-young, I didn’t want to b-be a journalist,” he said softly. Waylon was working hard on his ribs, making him feel distant from the confession he was about to make. He wasn’t self-conscious about how long it would take him to get it out.“A-as long as I can re-remember, I’ve wanted to b-be a r-reporter. I-I have s…so many memories of w-waking up and hearing the radio and thinking: th-that’s what I want to be. I wwwanted to be… recognized. B-but when I was i-in my teens I got this s-s-stupid fucking s-stutter a-and I knew it c-could never happen…” Waylon’s hand, on his waist, squeezed him hard. “I fucking… w-went to casting, I w-was naive.” Miles remembered that day so clearly: barely eighteen, hair trimmed short, wearing his nicest shirt and tie. He was ready to be the face of news. But they weren’t ready for him. “I-I was a-lot worse back then, if y-you can believe it.” He smiled a bit in disbelief. “It w-was horrible. Everyone c-clearly felt s-so bad, I was h-humiliated. I nnnever wanted to talk again. I g-gave up, I t-transferred to journalism in DC, I l-left that part of my life b-behind. A-at least this w-ay, all I h-have to do is s-stay out of it a-and record everything…”

Now it was Waylon’s turn not to know how to react. He breathed very softly, hands still circling the same location on the base of Miles’ back. “That’s terrible,” Waylon said softly. 

“A-at least I’m good at what I do,” Miles smirked softly. 

“You’re one of the best,” Waylon agreed. “I wouldn’t have found you otherwise.” 

The curse of being well known. Miles lapsed into silence, looking ahead of him. Waylon’s hands were still moving over his back. After a long time, Waylon requested, “can I hug you?” Miles nodded and lifted his body so Waylon could slip his arm under, curling around him and pulling him in tight. It felt good to be squeezed; it lowered Miles’ anxiety almost instantaneously. Waylon’s hot front on his cold back was comforting; he sunk into the other man’s embrace. 

This is how they were meant to be: united. Victims, supporters, friends. There was no more need for words. 

They lay there for a while, time passing strangely. Neither of them were thinking of sleeping. Waylon was breathing softly into Miles’ back, and Miles didn’t feel like a corpse. The walrider was trying hard to make him feel good. His skin was soft, supple, Waylon releasing tension from his arms.

“M…may I t-touch you?” Miles asked slowly.

“Mmhmm,” Waylon agreed.

Miles turned off the lamp, so they were cast in darkness. He rolled over so his front was facing Waylon now and it was his turn for hands to roam the planes of the other man’s body. Up and down Waylon’s arms, like to coax heat at first, then along his back, pulling them together as the mutually set off all of each other’s sensors. Miles couldn’t discern if it was sexual, but it was so intimate. Waylon’s hands found the bullet scars in his chest, but he didn’t show any sign of recognition. Maybe he was being polite, or maybe he didn’t realize.

In the dark, nothing mattered. Neither Waylon nor Miles existed and everything outside of their hands was irrelevant. Miles was feeling more and more, and it was breaking him down. He felt close to crying; this was something he’d thought he would never experience again. Waylon’s hands traveled up his back, onto his neck, over his scalp, pulling Miles’ face into his neck and embracing him hard. At some point in this touch fest, Park’s shirt had been removed as well and his blood pumped so loud next to Miles’ ear on his jugular. Waylon was pressing Miles’ face so hard; things didn’t feel real, consequences didn’t exist. Miles hugged Waylon hard, their legs tangled between them, both tired of being scared but so terrified of what would come.

They were all each other had. Lisa and the kids weren’t there for Waylon, but he needed someone. He wasn’t strong. Waylon didn’t mind the feeling of Miles’ arms (too powerful for their size, really) around him. He didn’t feel guilt holding Miles close. These things matter so little in the grand scheme of things.

Eventually, the two fell asleep like this. (Yes, it did not escalate. Miles was prepared for it. He knew he wanted to fuck Park, he wanted to show him that part of him that he knew existed, but things never went that way. The closeness was connection enough.) The nightmares, still just as prevalent in both, didn’t seem so bad in each other’s embrace.

Miles awoke to a bloody nose and the swarm panicking around him. Immediately, through its eyes, he saw police cars pulling into the parking lot. His arm was numb under Waylon’s body. “P-Park, we gotta get up, w-we gotta get o-outta here…”

Waylon was still half asleep, blinking blearily in the sun. He was in this fantastic domestic mood, finally starting to feel like the loving man he knew he was. He blinked a few times, trying to focus on Miles kicking off his pants from yesterday and pulling on sweaters, shoulder on a long sleeve button down and only doing up the middle button. He smiled fondly, stretching. “Morning, grumpy…”

“Waylon,” Miles said his name clearly. They met each other’s gaze. There was a break in the tension for a second, their gaze connecting them like the spirit cord did, looking at each other and not even knowing if last night was real. The walrider screeched and Miles rubbed his bloody nose with his hand. “Th-the cops are outside, I th-think they found usss.”

This woke the IT guy up. He threw the covers off and stripped too, trying his best to get on fresh clothes (which were becoming limited in supply) while throwing everything he had back into his suitcase. They did not want any more lives lost. A quick flee would work better.

With their packs loaded and on their backs, Miles used the swarm to check the hall and unlock the fire escape. The cops were coming around from the other side. He popped the door, ushered Waylon out, and sealed it behind him, ensuring the walrider sealed the deadbolt. They snuck down the stairs and hurried to the car, turning tail and motoring away.

They almost laughed at the situation. So close to being caught so many times, always just slipping away. Their life was the asylum now. The sun on Park’s face made him shine; the pressure was already showing, his eyes dark and sunken, his skin paler and sickly, but his spirit hadn’t been broken. Miles wouldn’t let him be the host; that kind of horror would ruin him.

Miles knew now what he had to do. After last night, it would hurt, but it would help.

They drove for a few hours; they were nearing Montana when Miles broke the news. “Park… I-I think we h-have to split up.”

Waylon was in the passenger seat. He’d been staring out the window but looked over at Miles. “… What? Did you really just say that?”

Miles sighed. “I… d-don’t want you to g-get upset.”

“Why are you saying this?” Waylon asked.

“The sw-swarm is becoming r-reliant on you,” Miles worried aloud. “I-I don’t want it h-hurting you like it’s h-hurt so many p-p-p-people…”

Waylon exhaled. “I only helped it to help you, Miles. You’re going to hurt so bad if we split up! You said yourself, it needs more nanofactories than one person, just a mind to host it, right? It’s gonna be hell on you…”

“I… I h-haven’t been com-completely honest with you,” Miles was speaking faster. “I’m… n-n-not like Billy. H-he started healthy and the swarm w-wore him down. I’m… I got  _ killed  _ in t-the asylum.”

Waylon turned pale. He shook his head. “No. What are you saying?”

“It…” Miles was still trying to figure it out himself. “I… I-I unplugged Billy’s life s-support and i-it moved into me, I w-was host, but then I got… shhhhot by Murk T-Tactical before I c-could escape… it’s b-been struggling to k-keep itself  _ and  _ m-me alive since then.” Waylon was shaking his head, looking teary. Miles gave a bleak smile. “M-my time’s running out, P-Park, I d-don’t want to hurt you t-to keep myself going…”

Waylon shook his mind. “I don’t care. Hurt me, Miles, leaving you’s gonna hurt me too…”

“Y-you’re s-so much stronger than you think,” Miles’ eyes were watering now too. “Y-y-y… you don’t need me. F-fuck beating Murkoff, g-get back to your wife and k-kids before it—” Miles couldn’t verbalize it; he didn’t even want to admit it was a possibility.  _ Before it transfers to you.  _ He knew if Waylon knew, he’d been terrified beyond control.

Waylon was crying for real now, shaking his head. “Shit…” he whispered. “I… I’m gonna get hunted down, Miles, I can’t go back to them now… I need your help…”

Miles coughed weakly. “I… d-don’t know how long I have. A-and please d-don’t cry, y-you’re gonna m-make me cry and the swarm’s gonna f-fuck up the car…”

Waylon laughed at the absurdity and rubbed his tears away. “We’re not doing this now.”

“I-I’m staying in the next town,” Miles had already decided. “You’re g…gonna keep going.”

Waylon closed his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know! Shit…”

The rest of their drive was awkwardly quiet. Miles could tell Waylon was upset, but he knew the other man knew he was right. The swarm was getting weaker again and Miles was spacing out for more horrible visions of his recent past, so Waylon took his turn driving and Miles fed the nanotech. While he slept, Billy was back in his mind.

_ “You are wrong about so many things,”  _ Billy thought-spoke to Miles.

The journalist shook his head.  _ “What else am I supposed to do? This thing didn’t really come with a handbook.”  _ He chucked to himself: Becoming a Nanofactory for Dummies. Step 1: I hope you like bleeding 😊.

_ “Waylon would take me to my mother,”  _ Billy said.  _ “I’ve seen his mind. He believes in that stuff because he’s a good person, unlike you.” _

_ “Your opinion doesn’t really affect me,”  _ Miles nonchalantly returned.

_ “You think distance will stop the walrider?”  _ Billy sarcastically asked.

_ “Yes?”  _ Miles was in disbelief.  _ “Are you trying to tell me I wasn’t just chosen to be the host because I happened to be right fucking next to you when you died?” _

Billy shrugged.  _ “We’re very alike; that’s why we make good hosts. You need a strong brain, exposure to the engine is secondary. Everyone else potential in the asylum had already been killed to release the tech from their blood. It would’ve gone as far as it needed to get to you. And it will to him.”  _ Miles’ throat closed.  _ “And you’re willing to risk that around his children? His baby?”  _

_ “Okay, fuck, stop,”  _ Miles was putting up bars in his mind. He didn’t want to visualize.  _ “I have a real question for you. Last night it almost sounded like he was hinting that his wife cheated on him. That she couldn’t be pregnant otherwise.” _

Billy smirked.  _ “You realize you have to power to access this information just as easily as I do? Or does it make you feel like a good guy respecting his privacy?” _

_ “I just  _ live  _ for this schoolyard gossip,”  _ Miles sarcastically drawled.  _ “Go on, spill.” _

Billy scratched his head and the engine flashed on Miles’ eyes.  _ “He thinks that she is but he can’t believe it. She isn’t really, Blaire raped her.” _

Miles froze in his tracks.  _ “Who? What the fuck? Holy shit, shouldn’t we tell him this—” _

Billy shrugged.  _ “Is that the kind of thing you’d want to know?”  _ Miles didn’t know how to think.  _ “Blaire, Jeremy Blaire, Waylon’s ex-boss and the bastard in charge of Mount Massive. Once they committed Waylon, she fought back and he went to her house and raped her. And knocked her up.”  _ Billy spat on the ground.  _ “That sinner deserves his penance in hell.” _

Miles didn’t know what to do. Tell Waylon would fuck him up beyond imagination; you just can’t hear that kind of thing; now, Mount Massive would be a tarnish on his family forever. Did Lisa know? Did she need Waylon to help her through it? Was he strong enough to be the help she needed?

Miles put his head in his hands (still completely whole in his mind).  _ “What a charming note to start this dream sequence on! I’ll grab the popcorn.”  _ Billy was absorbing his personality, saying the shit he’d say to other people. Miles dreamed of cocks and headless corpses.

When he woke, the sun was low in the sky, his head was pulsing, and it upset his stomach to look at Waylon. Lisa Park should get an abortion, Miles knew that was what needed to happen. How he would convince the family to do it was far beyond his power. 

If Waylon found out, he would be devastated. Already, it was hurting Miles. He needed an out. He couldn’t bear this information.

“L-let me out of the car—” he hated that his stutter was back. Slowly, Waylon pulled over, and Miles tumbled out, spitting blood on the side of the road, kneeling into the gravel, slamming the door behind him and using the swarm to push the car forward as he had before. This was how it had to be. Waylon had to leave now, he needed to get the swarm out of the other man’s mind and blood before it was too late to reverse what he’d done. “G-goodbye…” he whispered sadly, watching the car motor off down the highway.

He knew Waylon would stop and turn around so he forced the nanotech to keep the swarm progressing forward. He watched the car shrink for a bit until he felt a sharp tugging at his waist and called the swarm back, watching it sail through the air toward him. So there was a limit to their connection.

But through the swarm’s vision, he could still see the thick spirit cord back to Waylon. The car continued on for a little while, then suddenly he felt himself being dragged and his head nearly split with the sudden intense pain. He could hear Waylon’s voice in his mind, his brain not his own, crying out in pain. He watched the breaks turn on, the hatchback pulling over and putting the flashers on.

“N-no…” Miles marveled at the swarm. He looked straight on to the ball of darkness before him, anger building deep in his stomach. “No, fucking s-stop it! L-let him go, l-let him be! H-he can’t be the h-host, cut the connection, I… I-I’m gonna k-kill myself a-and I’m gonna k-kill you and M-Murkoff’s nightmare will be over—”

The walrider formed and looked him in the eye, looking sad, shaking its head giving him a strong no. Miles sat there for a second, head no longer throbbing, looking at the distant speck of Waylon looking back at him. He knew what he had to do. God knows he wasn’t strong enough to do it.

What would he tell Waylon? What could he? What would set him off and send him spiraling back into the insanity that asylum implanted in them both? He watched the hatchback start again and turn around, returning to him. He realized only then that his mouth was bleeding, but he didn’t care. Seeing Waylon come back to him made him smile, and the tech guy was sporting the same bloody teeth.

“We’re in this together,” Waylon hugged Miles as the car stopped in front of them. Miles’ marrow pulled him closer to Waylon. This wasn’t meant to be. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decided to make just one last longer chapter. Hope you enjoyed :) (as much as u can for a sad story lol)

Without much of a choice, the two continued to drive into Montana until the September sun was down. Eventually, the two stopped for the night and Miles’ heart was hurting. He was still feeling more human than usual, or maybe he was just habituating to the nonstop buzzing in his bones. They picked another small motel and Miles’ hands wouldn’t stop shaking. His muscles were aching as if they’d been overexerted although he’d barely moved in the last week. The swarm seemed to be giving up as much as he did, but he was sure the real end wouldn’t be this nice.  
  
He leaned against their hatchback and watched as Waylon went to the payphone to try calling his wife. Someone needed to keep watch. He was starting to care less, using the swarm to tune in on the cell signal leaving the phone.  
  
Waylon’s voice sounded crackly, like from over the phone even though he was within earshot of Miles. “Honey? How are you doing?”  
  
“I’m okay, baby, I miss you so much,” his wife had a pretty voice.  
  
“Is wh… is what you emailed me true?” Waylon’s voice was quivering. They were being careful, not saying anything outright, making the call untraceable.  
  
“I don’t know. I think so,” Lisa replied softly. “I’m scared, baby, I don’t want this to happen…”  
  
“We’ll find a way,” Waylon said softly.  
  
“I can’t keep… spending time apart from you if we’re going to keep this,” she said very vaguely. Miles knew exactly what they were talking about. “B-but don’t hurry back. Stay for as long as _work _needs you to.”  
  
Waylon sighed. “I w… I want to come back, babe, I do… but I want to make sure everything’s tied up for you and the boys.”  
  
Lisa breathed for a long time. “Babe… I think I want to get rid of it.”  
  
“No…” Waylon’s voice quivered. “Please don’t, baby, please, I want to be there for you and our kids, I-I know that our boys are the best thing we’ve ever made and so would this one…”  
  
“I don’t…” Lisa couldn’t get her thoughts out. “I’m sorry. I just feel like… nothing is ever going to be the same.”  
  
“I don’t know if I can be the same person ever again,” Waylon admitted at a near whisper. “That place changed me.”  
  
Lisa changed the subject: “How’s your new _coworker?”_  
  
Waylon sighed. “What can I say? Fantastic. I feel horrible that he has to be here, but he’s helped me so much. I think… I think we’re parting ways soon. I don’t know what will happen after that.” There was another long breath. “I really care for him. It’s fucked up, I know I shouldn’t. He’s done a lot for me, and vice versa. I know everything will end up okay.”  
  
It hurt Miles. He was getting in too deep. This would all be over in the next couple of days. It would be done, he and Waylon and the walrider and the last traces of Mount Massive would be cleansed from the earth. Miles had errands to run.  
  
“I miss you so much,” Lisa reiterated. “I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too,” Waylon said shakily. “I’ll talk to you when I get the chance.”  
  
Miles was approaching the phone now, reaching for it. “L-let me talk t-to her,” he said. Waylon gave him a strange look and Miles begged, “p-please.”  
  
Waylon hesitated for a bit and quietly said to Lisa. “My coworker wants to talk to you. Is that okay?”  
  
“Yes, put him on,” Lisa sounded encouraging.  
  
While Waylon was handing the receiver over, Miles ordered him, “G-go back to the room, I-I gave you privacy, p-please respect mine…”  
  
A lie, but it worked. Waylon looked back at Miles as he brought the receiver up beside his head. “H-hello?” he said softly.  
  
“Hi,” Lisa still sounded worried. “Be honest, how is my husband doing?”  
  
“H-he’s healthy,” Miles stuttered. He was surprised how fluent he was on the phone; usually, this was when his stutter was worst. “Mentally, ch-changed, but doing a-alright. He thinks about you a-a lot, you’re a lucky woman.”  
  
Lisa sighed. “Are you taking care of him?”  
  
“It’s mutual,” Miles confirmed. “He’s a g-good man. I c-care for him, and I only want what’s best for him a-and his whole family.” Miles breathed hard for a second, willing the swarm’s static not to flare up. “But y-your husband can’t come back to you. Th-the things we’ve done on this trip should be far away fr-rom you and your boys.”  
  
Lisa breathed out. “Are you sure?”  
  
“Mmhmm,” Miles replied. “He t-told me the situation you’re in, a-and you’re right – you should g-get rid of it. He can’t be there f-for you.”  
  
“I know, it’s just…” she sighed. “It’s hard.”  
  
“I know,” Miles agreed. _He was starting to love Waylon, too. _“G-get the help you need, settle into your new h-home. Y-you probably won’t hear from him again.”  
  
She sniffled. She knew this would come. She could do this; Miles had seen her fight back against Blaire, she could hold her own much more than Waylon could. She was distanced from Mount Massive, that was the only way she could be safe. “I understand,” she said very softly. “Tell him I love him.”  
  
“I w-will,” Miles' voice quivered and he was incredibly sad. He hung up the receiver and used the swarm to cook the internal mechanics of the payphone so it couldn’t be used again. His head hurt like a thousand tumors.  
  
In the room, Waylon was bending and flexing his newly healed foot, wearing flannel pajama pants and some graphic tee. He smiled at Miles when he came in. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”  
  
Miles was pretending he hadn’t just told this man’s wife that he’d never be coming back. “Y-yeah. She… want me to tell you she loves you.”  
  
Waylon cast his eyes down. “I know that. I love her, too.”  
  
Miles craved this love. He wanted to love, to be loved, to have someone looking out for him. He wanted Waylon’s love but knew it wasn’t his to give.  
  
“I-I’m going out,” Miles said quietly. “D-do you want anything?”

Waylon shook his head, then reconsidered.“Actually, I could really go for a snickers.”    
  
Miles smirked. Typical Waylon. Just another of his charms. “Okay. W-Want a drink?”    
  
Waylon laughed. “Blue Gatorade. God, it’s like we’re having a sleepover.”    
  
Miles laughed then grimaced as his lungs burned and he coughed into his hand. “C-can I wear your hat?”    
  
Waylon grabbed it off his head and tossed it to Miles. “Your face still looks like shit,” Waylon half-joked, rubbing the stubble on his head.    
  
Miles smiled sarcastically. “Y-yet you stuck ar-around.” The look Waylon gave him was too tender.    
  
Miles put on the hat and his jean jacket, taking the keys and an analog map. The swarm circled his head. His muscles hurt to walk but he forced himself to. He willed the nanocloud not to exert any horror on him until he got home. Then, he’d give it free rein of its body. He followed the map to the next closest Montana town, knowing what he needed to get.    
  
He stopped first at a gun store. He had to take off his hat and use his real ancient license although he hardly resembled anymore. Bless America’s lenient gun laws. He was able to get his hands on a small handgun even looking in the horrible state he had. A little mental confusion from the walrider may have helped his case. After, he wrapped the metal in one of his sweaters and hid it in the corner of the trunk. He half-filled up their tank at a gas station and picked up Waylon’s goods, getting a bottle of dark rum for himself as well.    
  
The cashier was a scrawny looking teen who gave him a distrustful look as soon as he approached the register. Of course he’d catch more shit at a gas station than buying a gun.    
  
“S-sir, are you alright?” the cashier asked.    
  
Miles deadpanned him. “What?”   
  
“Your eye,” he pointed out.    
  
Miles reached up and felt warmth on his fingers. This was no surprise, the often cried blood since his infestation. He blinked and the blood was darker than before, coming from all over instead of the centre corner. His legs were cramping; the walrider was losing its hold.    
  
“I j-just have to g-get home,” Miles shoved a fifty on the counter. “P-please.”    
  
The cashier hurriedly deposited his change. Miles took the money and hurried back to the car, legs stiff and refusing to cooperate. Stress began pumping through his system. “N-not yet, not n-now,” he stuttered. He inspected himself in the rearview mirror to find his left sclera completely filled with dark blood, barely leaking out the edges. The swarm ambiance was roaring in his inner ears, his hands were shaking, freezing up.  _ “I have to get home!”  _ he mentally reminded the swarm as it threatened to overpower him. The sun was slipping below the horizon, starting to cast him into darkness. He was terrified.

Throwing the car into drive, Miles attempted to make his way back to the motel. It was like driving extremely drunk: he barely had control of his body, he could only see out of his good eye, the swarm was making the windshield vibrate and tremor (he worried it would break). He drove along at 25, flashers on, hugging the shoulder of the road. When the motel came into view, he was more monster than human. His legs didn’t work, but the swarm lifted him out, dragging him a few inches above the ground and depositing him by their door. He banged on it from the ground, unable to move or feel anything below his waist. This decline was sudden; the dull ache in his bones had changed to a burn and his skin felt as if it was boiling. “W-Waylooooon!” he called hoarsely, barely able to speak. “Waaay—”  
  
The tech guy wrenched the door open and immediately dropped to his knees. “Christ, Miles, what’s happening?”  
  
“I-I-I ‘on’ kn-n-n-n-oww…” Miles slurred, losing control of his mouth. He did know. He knew he was about to die. His muscles were literally oxidizing, the walrider was releasing control, it was getting too weak. Their room shook and the lights flickered as the swarm separated from his body and rushed in a circle around the ceiling before ascending to beyond where they could see.  
  
“God, you’re bleeding,” Waylon pulled Miles in by his belt and locked the door behind them. “Here, let me get a towel.”  
  
Miles could suddenly taste blood and his mouth filled with it. His hands were shaky (still radiation burned) as he clawed his way forward. He spat blood onto the short dark carpet in front of him and it was immediately replaced with more. The tech guy returned with a white towel, immediately reddened as Miles pressed it to his mouth.  
  
_Tell him what’s happening, _Miles willed the swarm, too tired to hold himself up. He lay on his side, blood still leaking out of his mouth, barely able to see. More red leaked down the side of his face like tears. The swarm made a series of rubbing and clicking noises and Waylon stared up at the ceiling. “You… you’re dying?” Waylon read from it.  
  
“Nnnnnot tonight,” Miles grunted. “I-I’m gonna, I’m gonna f-ff-feed it a-and w-we’re gonna l-llllleave tomorrow—” he descended to coughing again.  
  
“Here,” Waylon sat on the floor next to Miles, looking very sad. He propped Miles’ head onto his lap, stroking his head and back as Miles let the blood drain out of his mouth onto the towel. “I know you can do it, I’m here for you, it can feed of me if you need.”  
  
“Nu-uu-uh,” Miles shook his head. “N-no moooore…”  
  
“Shh, you don’t have to talk,” Waylon wiped Miles’ bloody face with the cloth. Miles was in immense pain, crying out, his bones all feeling like they were being broken. His ribs ached when he coughed despite his lack of breath. The walrider was pulling on his spine, sending pain racketing through his body. His hands were trembling but he was paralyzed from the waist down. He was crying and yelling from the pain, but Waylon remained on the ground, stroking and shushing him.   
  
His head suddenly pulsed with pain as his vision went white, the walrider casting electromagnetic radiation down onto him and erasing his brain, taking over. He started to writhe; it felt like a seizure (not that he’d ever had one before). He convulsed, short circuited, completely terrified and feeling like his muscles were going to tear. He couldn’t think, he could just feel. After a while, the tremoring stopped, but he was still unconscious, feeling like he was in a dream. His mind was in Mount Massive, floating with shadows of his past motions around him. This view wasn’t anything he’d seen before, but the mood was the same. He could feel the high levels of ambient terror, moans and cries from below him, mist around his body making him damp, or maybe he was just drenched in sweat.   
  
His consciousness had entirely left his body. Even as he slowly became aware that he was back at the hotel and he could see Waylon, he didn’t feel real. He could see himself, probably since he was housed inside the swarm now. Was he dead? How long until his brain completely shut down? His job hadn’t even been done; the swarm covering his body could have easily encompassed Waylon as well.   
  
_‘I just need more time,’ _he begged the swarm, trying hard to visualize his brain floating back down into his body. He looked so pale and bloody beneath the cloud of darkness. In his confusion, the two bodies below him started to look like one. The circle the swarm was making made it seem like the two were linked; you couldn’t find where one started or where the other ended. He could feel Waylon’s hands on his own, feel Waylon’s breath in his lungs.   
  
Around then, he completely lost consciousness and fell into dreams. He relieved horrors that could have belonged to either of them. Their minds were completely connected, all boiled down to a first-person view of an anonymous hallway, a pursuer hot on their tail. Miles didn’t have time to consider the implications of these dreams right now; he lacked all thought together. Eventually, the dreams stopped and he fell into a deeper sleep, delta waves taking over his brain control, his mind finally getting a chance to rest. After that, more nightmares, combined with a feeling of heartburn and compression on his lungs, and after that, he finally awoke.   
  
It was like surfacing from suffocation, breaching an invisible line of water. Miles gulped in oxygen, gagging, still tasting blood, lungs aching. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t dead! It took him a second to still his breaths, focus his eyes. He realized again his left eye was still unseeing; a later inspection would reveal it was entirely bloody. He sat up, now in bed, drenched in a cold sweat, fingers hurting like open wounds once again.   
  
He looked beside him to where Park lay — his own bed was abandoned on the other side of the room and instead he had opted to curl into Miles’ double bed. The journalist couldn’t fathom why: his sheets were bloody, he reeked of terror sweat, his body was falling apart before his eyes. But Park slept soundly: he lay on his side with only the top sheet over him, face peaceful and one arm was stretched out, still resting right next to where Miles had lain.   
  
Miles was shaking. He threw his legs out from under the covers, finally in control of his body again. Getting to his feet, he tumbled forwards. His muscles had already deteriorated, far weaker than they had been the previous day. Uneasily, pulling himself upright on the bed, he stood again. He hustled to the door, prying it open, stepping into the cold night air with bare feet. He knew what he had to do.   
  
He stumbled to the car, unlocking it, digging under the back seat until his hand reached the cold metal. He’d never shot a gun before, but how hard could it be? (He hadn’t been able to help himself from imagining how differently things would have gone in the asylum if he’d had a gun in his possession.)   
  
The swarm knew something was wrong but clearly wasn’t sure. Miles hasn’t fully admitted it to himself, so there was no way his parasite could know. He flopped back to the hotel room, loading the revolver and taking off the safety.   
  
As soon as the swarm realized, it went ballistic.   
  
Miles was already shaking with adrenaline, but the swarm made it so much worse. It was making sounds like siren screams, overlayed with electronic pulses up and down. He stood at his full height, aiming the gun at Waylon’s sleeping head.   
  
He should have fucking done it. Put Waylon out of his misery in his sleep; he never would’ve expected it. He wouldn’t have died in fear, it would’ve been peaceful, just the bullet deep in his brain, the one thing that could undo what Murkoff had done. 

He just stood there, shaking, overthinking, hesitating. He could hear Park’s soft breath, the rise and fall, thinking about how this stranger had stayed by his side when he’d been near death only hours before. The walrider was agreeing and disagreeing at the same time: it lusted for the blood, but it knew Waylon was a valuable resource. He was rare; they wouldn’t find someone as kind or as fruitful as Waylon ever again. Miles’ hands quivered and he was crying again, tears out of his real eye, blood out of his lost eye. The walrider was yelling, making his sinuses feel like they were going to explode. He had to do it but he couldn’t. He had to! The previous events had shown him just how quickly he could go from alright to near death. He should’ve done it, he should’ve been strong, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t a killer, not by any means. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want Park dying without the sun every on his face again. He lowered the weapon and fell to his knees, exhausted, feeling like a failure.    
  
Waylon continued to sleep soundly. Miles stumbled on numb feet to the bathroom, washing the dried blood off his face and chest. As he was cleaning, he seemed to be rubbing soot onto himself, but the more soap he used, the more he realized it was something in him which he was seeing. He ripped off his shirt, breaking the buttons, not caring, revealing more closely entwined, dense black walrider veins spreading throughout him in a proximodistal pattern. They covered his arms completely, and in the white bathroom light, he could now see his hands were grey and black as well. They were beginning to grow apparent on his face, just around his eyes and temples. His red eye still glared at him, his normal eye getting so tired from overuse. He was far from passable now; tomorrow would surely be his last day on earth. Even his teeth were consumed by blackened veins, hurting like thirty-one cavities in his mouth.    
  
Miles poured himself a hot bath, shaking and dirty still. He had a lot to think about, a lot to decide. (Really, he didn’t, he already knew exactly what he had to do, he just had to convince himself there was no other way). Lying there in the water, tinged red from his blood, his whole body lined by veins filled with the nanotech made him feel farther from human than he’d ever felt before. He’d become completely accustomed to the rushing and screaming of the swarm constantly in his ears; he didn’t even notice the constant helicopter buzzing in his bones.    
  
Eventually, he forced himself out of the bathtub, the room still dark. God knew what time it was; he was going to try to get more sleep before the sun was up. He didn’t bother wrapping a towel around himself, walking nude to his suitcase to dig out another pair of sweat pants and a tee. The swarm was constantly biting and nipping at his body as the machines entered and exited from between his cells. He felt like a higher being.    
  
But all of a sudden, with his shirt half over his head, Waylon started snoring behind him. Miles paused, turned, looked back at the other man, still in his bed, still fast asleep and clueless. It brought him right back down to where he was, to where he belonged. This quiet domestic life, on the lam with a dad, made him feel his heart in his chest and made him wish this didn’t have to end the way it did. It was clear Waylon cared for him, and he reciprocated this. They had been better off together than they’d been alone. Waylon was a nurturing person; who else would’ve held their convulsing partner, drooling blood for the better part of an hour?   
  
Miles dismissed the swarm, separated with it, finished dressing and moved back to his bed. For a second, he considered letting Waylon keep this one and moving to the other bed, but he didn’t care at this point, and it would be comforting to wake up in the same place he’d fallen asleep. He took away the bloody towel that had been under his head and ditched the damp pillow, too, grabbing a new one from the other bed and slipping back under the covers beside Waylon. He just barely stirred, breathing slightly deeper, face pushed into the pillow. Miles let one of his broken hands dance along Waylon’s spine, pressing into the small of his back, feeling his pulse, his breath.    
  
Park should’ve died in the asylum. They both should have. 

At some point, Miles fell asleep. He woke slowly once it was bright out, rolling over with a pained cry. His entire body burned like from tears in his muscles, abs hurting even to breathe. Waylon was in the bathroom door, drinking a glass of water. “Good morning,” he said softly, sadly, meeting Miles’ gaze.    
  
The host stretched, inspecting his still blackened arms visible from his shirt. “H-h-hey,” he stuttered, slowly propping himself up.    
  
“You look ridiculous,” Park snorted, bringing the glass to his lips.    
  
Miles smiled tightly. “Th-thanks,” he sarcastically replied, watching the swarm power through his blood. “M-must be nice f-f-for you to have s-someone to poke fun at.”    
  
“I-it is fun,” Waylon put down the glass. His expression became gentler. “Honestly, though, I’m happy you’re alright.”    
  
Miles looked at his blue hands. “I-I wouldn’t r-really call this o-ok-kay, b-but…” he took a deep breath, “th-thanks for last n-night.”    
  
Waylon shrugged and came to sit on the bed beside him. “Hey. It’s what friends do.”    
  
Hearing Park declare the two of them friends made what Miles had to do so much harder. He looked down. “R-really, y-you d-didn’t have to do that…”    
  
Waylon touched Miles’ arm. “You deserved it, it’s not exactly pleasant for you either.”    
  
Miles met Waylon’s gaze and the other man didn’t shy away. Miles knew he looked like hell, but he’d be damned if Waylon wasn’t patient and kind enough to deal with him. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, pulling on a hoodie. “W-we should g-get moving, w-we’ll try to make it t-to the border today, a-alright?”    
  
Waylon hummed and tossed Miles a pair of sunglasses. “I can drive, if you want. I slept well.”    
  
Miles knew his holding back of the walrider probably played a part in that. He didn’t want to turn down this offer; all his muscles hurt with each motion. He washed his hideous face once more before they left, guzzled water from the tap and shared a can of pineapple with Park before they took off. While Waylon showered, Miles carefully retrieved the gun again. In the night, he’d foolishly hidden it in the bed-side table – somewhere far too easy for Park to come across it. He wrapped it in an old t-shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his pants. He told himself the right time would come.    
  
They loaded their stuff and hurried on. Miles tried his best to pull the machinery in his veins into his torso, but there was so much of it, he couldn’t do much to hide it.    
  
Driving with Waylon was pleasant. The sun was out, and Miles had the window down. One mangled hand surfed the air passing by their car. Waylon was in a surprisingly smiley mood despite the dark events of the previous night. Looking at him gave Miles some solace. Park had lived a good life, one he could never come back to. He’d seen himself married, he’d had two beautiful kids. A job, a house, things that were gone and could never come back. It only went downhill from here.    
  
The walrider took him on a tour through Waylon’s memories, things he used to help him get through the asylum. Sunny afternoons, a brown wife in a white dress, tiny feet, long grass, the wind in his hair, riding bikes through California, his family portrait.    
  
Miles’ heart was breaking.    
  
Waylon, in his mind, knew this was Miles’ last day. Thinking about it made him feel like crying, but he knew how to fake a happy face. As they moved from the flatter parts of Montana up into the Rockies, the view became nicer. As the sun started to dip behind the mountains, Waylon pulled off onto a side road and drove until they got to one of the gorgeous glacial lakes.    
  
The two got out of the car, stretching stiff limbs. “T-there’s nothing like this b-back in DC,” Miles marveled softly.    
  
“Here,” Waylon was starting to take off his sneakers. “Let’s go in.”    
  
Miles couldn’t move as he watched his partner remove his shoes and socks, rolling up his pant legs and stepping lightly into the crystal clear water. He continued to stare as Park waded in, looking back and smiling.    
  
“Come in, the water’s fine!” Park called back.    
  
The swarm was on edge. It knew what Miles was thinking. He was rooted in place, feet unable to move even in the slightest. He wanted to – the September sun was casting long shadows, still warm on his bare arms. Let Waylon have this: one last shared experience.    
  
“I-i-it’s b-beautiful,” Miles said quietly.    
  
“God, I could look at this forever,” Park mused, putting his hands in his back pockets. His feet were turning red in the cold water.    
  
Miles was biting the inside of his lips, unable to speak more, tears threatening to come, hands finding their way to the back of his waistband where he started to retrieve the gun. He lowered his head. Was he strong enough? Slowly, he raised it, checking it was still loaded, removing the safety, cocking it, pointing it at the back of Park’s head. They were ten feet apart. The other man looked out at the sun on the turquoise water, completely unbeknownst. Should they have talked about it? Was a consensual death better than a peaceful one?    
  
He stared for a long time at the back of Waylon’s head, the crosshairs focusing in on that small point. The gun was as cold as his skin. He tightened his lips as tears started to roll out of his face and he eased his finger over the trigger.    
  
“I’m s-sure Lisa and they boys wo-would’ve loved this,” Miles stuttered, the swarm tying them together. 

Yellow memories flashed in his eyes like the engine. Waylon was smiling, the sun on his face, the essence of his happiness filling both of them. “They always did–”   
  
Miles pulled the trigger.    
  
Park dropped fast, into the water, on the shore. He was immediately unconscious, body in shock. Blood was already staining the blue water around him. Miles had struck true. The second Park was hit, Miles felt the shot, it in the back of his neck, the back of his head. With the deed done, he was unfrozen, and he stumbled into the water, already aching with regret. He lifted Waylon’s body out onto the shore more, wiping blood off his peaceful face. For a half -second, sounds of his voice filled Miles’ mind, the spirit cord unwinding and separating away.    
  
Anything was better than the fate of a host.    
  
The walrider was crying, Miles hurting so deep with sorrow, with hurt. The swarm melted out of him, sopping wet, going into the water, spreading out in a vast dust cloud as Miles cradled Waylon as the other had done to him the previous night.    
  
“I-I saved y-you,” Miles slurred to the body before him: “I S-SAVED YOU!”   
  
And as the swarm spread, already filled with distress, his own body began to break down before his eyes. Without the crutch to rely on, it was giving up Miles as host. He screamed in pain, just as bad as the first time. Everything the swarm had fixed came undone: his fingers opened and bled, his legs were broken once more, black blood seeped out of the front of his shirt. His organs writhed in pain. In front of his own eyes, he watched his body start to disintegrate. Literally, he was more machine than human, watching the swarm flee away from him and watching his feet start to disappear. It was kind of poetic, kind of what he wanted, fading away and breaking off into pieces, and eventually completely turned to dust, just black particles in a spiral around Waylon’s body, which had now grown still. 

Miles’ consciousness resided in the walrider well into the night. He had time to grieve for Lisa; god knows when (or if) she’d find out her husband was dead. He hoped she’d take his advice and abort that terrible abuse baby, set up a new life with a new identity and escape Murkoff for the rest of her life. He had time to hope what damage they’d done to Murkoff would at least shake the company. Hopefully other people would resist. People knew the shit that company was doing was wrong, Waylon couldn’t have been the only one. He prayed Waylon hadn’t felt any pain. He appreciated that he hadn’t had to kill himself, for he knew he wouldn’t have been able to pull that trigger against his own head. 

He descended into a blurry dream, his own memories mixed with Waylon’s, mixed with Billy’s, foggy feelings, auras, touches, a twisted vision of a future that would never be that parodied Waylon’s white picket fence life. His shadow, Waylon’s, the boys, Lisa Park, a house, a  _ home,  _ yellow light gleaming salvation. It was like one long acid trip that never ended.

Some part of Miles’ consciousness lingered in the cloud of the walrider for a few weeks. Cell lifespans varied, and the nanotech was some parody of cells, so the relation must have originated from there. It travelled; it spread. Too weak to have much of an effect now, it observed. Miles couldn’t really perceive; everything he saw wasn’t worth saving either. He was left feeling very empty, remorseful. Eventually, the swarm faded away to nothingness too, but Miles was alright with that. Mount Massive was finally defeated.


End file.
